Raising The Stones (30 page)

In the dream a uniformed officer came across the sand toward him, holding out his hand, smiling an official smile. The handful of Ahabarian guards were changed every forty days. While on Ninfadel, they seldom went outside the walls. The small Native Matters contingent stayed longer, but even they went outside only rarely. Sometimes they told Shan this, sometimes he remembered it.

In the dream, it was the Native Matters people who explained various things to him, putting their faces close to his, so that he saw their gums, their teeth, their vibrating tongues, repeating things he already knew, a litany he knew by heart.

“We’ll tell you how to survive,” the Native Matters person said. “Do you understand? If you want to survive, you’ll listen.

“First, you never step off the highlands without your faceplate down. Not one step. You don’t lift your faceplate anywhere below the altitude line. We had one guy, went down below the line and built himself an observation post up in a tree, slept up there without his faceplate. One of the Porsa slimed up somehow, got him in the night. So you never, we repeat
never
, go below the line without your faceplate down.

“Second, never go beneath the line without one full day’s air in your emergency tank. Anytime you have less than that, you get here as fast as you can and get it refilled. One of ’em grabs you and you use up all but half a day’s air, don’t think you can get by. Next one might swallow you for a whole day. It’s been known to happen. Some of them lay in wait at the line, so don’t tell yourself you’re stepping over just for a minute.

“Third, try not to go more than a quarter-tank’s distance away from the line, or you can’t be sure you’ll get back to refill your tank. There’s a counter on the tank, push it when you step over the line.

“Fourth, if any mucous gets on your skin, wash it off while it’s still gooey. If it dries on you, it makes sores that don’t heal. Don’t take off your faceplate while you’re washing, either, if you do it down there. They like to grab you down at the river. The best thing to do is wash in the troughs we’ve piped water to, on the highlands. There are tall beacons by every trough. They’re easy to find.

“Fifth, don’t try to talk to them. I don’t care what kind of Alsense machine you’ve got, keep it on translate and record, not on speak. They go crazy if you try to talk to them. They just love it. We’ve had some of them swarm over the line just because some student was trying to communicate with them. It kills them, but they don’t die right away. They live long enough to do a lot of damage.

“Sixth, you’ll actually see more and hear more if you stay away from them than if you go close. If you go close, you’ll spend most of your time swallowed, and from inside you can’t see or hear anything much. The way to stay away from them is to stay above the line. That way nobody gets hurt. I know you won’t pay any attention, but it’s true. You’ll see just as much from up here as you will if you get closer. Use spy-eyes, if you like. They’ll get slimed fairly fast, but you can bring them back and clean them off.

“Seventh, use the nose filters whenever you see or hear them. I know you don’t think a stink can kill you, but damn, it can come close. …”

What they had said. What they said to every student who came to Ninfadel. Shan had heard it; now he dreamed it, every word. Perhaps he only remembered it, but in the dream it seemed that he heard it for the first time, felt, for the first time, his own scepticism. Shan was High Baidee. He believed what he himself knew to be true. He did not necessarily believe these Native Matters people from effete Phansure, these Ahabarian guards.

They gave him the breathing hood, a tight, flexible garment with a hard visor-hinged faceplate. The plate was linked to a heavy tank containing two day’s worth of ultrapack-air. A tube inside the faceplate could give him water. Another could feed him nutri-paste. The whole assemblage was heavy to carry, uncomfortable to wear.

“How long can I wear this thing?” he’d asked.

“Some people wear it all their fives,” the officer had said, making a joke. It wasn’t a joke, of course. Shan had seen the recordings of the assemblages lying in the sun among scattered human bones: required viewing for any graduate student who had the arrogance to plan research among the Porsa.

Or the courage, he told himself in the dream, as he had told himself in reality. Dedication, determination, courage. That’s all one needed. He went out of the outpost, into the security lock. The inner door closed and locked. The outer door opened. He walked along the high, rocky ground, keeping himself just inside the clearly marked glowing
line
, above which the Porsa died, looking down into sparse growth on the lower slopes of the hills and along the river. The smells were of spice and resin. Below him, by the stream, he saw a group of Porsa and heard them shouting at one another. Unthinkingly, he stepped over the line and went down onto the moist, sucking soil of the hill, turning on his Alsense machine so he could hear what they were saying.

“Piss, shit, snot, pus,” said one to another.

“Shit, slime, rot, you,” replied the second.

“Fartedy-fart-fart,” screamed a third. “Filth. You. Filth. You. Bury in feces.”

They fell on one another, melting together, seeming to coalesce, then separating once more. As they did so, they caught sight of him and began sliming up the hill toward him, shouting greetings, great gray blobs of mucous covered with running sores. The stink that preceded them came in a palpable wave. Gagging, Shan thrust in the nose filters he had been holding and then remembered, at the last possible minute, to pull down the faceplate. Shrieking happily, they increased their speed.

“Coming to you, filth. Coming to you.”

“Wait, filth. Wait!”

Shan dreamed that he ran, but they caught him. He dreamed that they swallowed him, one after the other, making gulping, liquid sounds.

Shan began to scream and went on screaming.

“Damzel!” someone shouted.

“Let me out!” he screamed.

“You’re out,” Sam yelled at him, shaking him. “Damzel, wake up. I heard you from my office downstairs. You’re on Hobbs Land. You’re all right!”

Groggily, Shan thrust himself toward the top of his bed, sat up, tried not to breathe.

“Breathe,” Sam commanded, as the man before him turned blue. “There’s nothing here to hurt you.”

Shan tried a tentative sniff. Nothing. Only air. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought I’d learned not to do that anymore.”

“You’re probably overtired,” said Sam, carefully not asking the questions he wanted to, such as, “What were you dreaming about.” Instead he asked, “Are you all right now?”

“Fine,” said Shan. “Where are Bombi and Volsa?”

“Saw them walking down the street a while ago. You’re sure you’re all right.”

“Fine,” said Shan again, calling out as Sam went out the door, “and thank you.”

Inside he was trembling, keeping himself from total panic only with an effort. This wouldn’t have happened, he told himself, on Thyker. It wouldn’t have happened. It had to be something here, something on Hobbs Land. Something … maybe those growths. Maybe … maybe something else, but definitely something. He lunged from the bed and started to pull his clothes on. It was this place. This place was causing it!

He went out into the street, hearing the music in a kind of panic, walking swiftly toward it, trying not to run, keeping himself from running only with great difficulty. As he approached the sound, he began to make out the words they were singing.

“Rise up, oh ye stones,” cried the tenors. “Rise up, ye great stones. Stand, oh, stand into the light.”

“Rise up,” boomed the basses. “Stand, oh, stand into the light.”

“Rise up,” trilled the girl’s voice. “Stand into the light.”

And there were Bombi and Volsa, sitting on the grass, listening, nodding in time to the music. “Not nice of you,” Shan snarled from just behind them. “Not nice of either of you.”

Bombi looked up to see him standing there, grinning a death’s-head grin.

“What were you two doing, sneaking off without me?” Shan asked. His voice was tight, near to screaming.

Bombi stared at him, not replying.

“I thought you were asleep,” said Volsa. “We’re just sightseeing.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Shan, seizing their arms and half-dragging them back the way they had come. “Out, quickly.”

“Shan, what’s the matter with you?” cried Volsa, tugging herself away from him.

“The noise,” he said. “The noise.”

“It’s only music, and lovely music,” she cried.

“In my head,” he muttered. “Something trying to get into my head. Swallow me.”

“Beauty,” she snapped. “Beauty trying to get into your head. It’s all right. We’re allowed to appreciate beauty.”

He shook his head at her, wildly. “More than that,” he hissed at her. “More than that. Get out of here.”

Bewildered, they followed him back to the guest quarters, where he shut the window against the sound of the distant choir.

“Don’t you hear it?” he cried at them. “The thing trying to get in?”

“Shan, go lie down,” his brother instructed. “You’re
overtired
. I hear nothing but music, lovely music, very nice voices, untrained but, in the mass, having a
nice
effect. I do not detect any threat against my religious sensibilities.”

“I’m not overtired,” Shan shouted. “Not!”

Volsa merely looked at him, thinking he had not acted like this since just after he had returned from Ninfadel. He met her eyes, flushed, and went into his own room, shutting the door behind him. He was quite sure he wasn’t mad. Though, at one time, among the Porsa and when he first got home, then he had thought he might be mad. This time he was quite sure he wasn’t. Quite, quite sure.

He sat down at his portable stage and began, very carefully, to compose a message to the Circle of Scrutators of the High Baidee. When he had done, he composed a quick, superficially innocent reminder to Howdabeen Churry. In essence, both of them said that Shan Damzel felt Zilia Makepeace had probably been right. Something dreadful was going on.

•
Maire Girat received
word that her nephew, one Ilion Girat, son of Phaed’s youngest brother, was on Hobbs Land and desired to see her. The last thing Maire wanted to do was see anyone from Voorstod, but on the other hand the boy could have something to say—about Phaed, perhaps. That he was sick, which she felt unlikely, or dead, which was always possible, given Phaed’s inclinations. If he were sick, or dead, she wanted to know. Silly, perhaps. Unreasonable, yes. But she wanted to know. However, there was this other possibility …

Maire went over to the brotherhouse and found Sam doing nothing much, which was a wonder in itself.

“I’ve a message your dad’s nephew is here on Hobbs Land,” she said.

“My
dad’s
nephew?
My
father …”

“Phaed Girat’s younger brother’s son.”

Sam went giddy. This would be it, a signal, an invitation. This would be the thing he had been waiting for. “So? Does he ask to meet us?”

“Me, he does. And I don’t want to.”

She looked so pitiful, he forgot to be angry with her, though he usually was when she got into all that nonsense about Voorstod. “Tell me,” he said.

“I’m afraid he’s here to bring me back to Phaed.”

Sam could not keep from saying in an exasperated voice, “Mam, that’s silly. He couldn’t bring you back to Phaed if he tried. And to think Phaed would send anyone, after all these years, it’s ridiculous. He might send for me, maybe, not for you.”

She ignored what he said, her fear overcoming her perception, not really hearing the words. “For me, maybe …”

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” she said, wiping her eyes, “but I’m still married to him.”

Sam did not want to speak of marriage. The idea of it shone in his mind. Lifelong commitment. He didn’t care what China called it, that’s what he wanted, and he dared not talk of it for fear those who scorned the idea would sully it for him.

“You didn’t get unmarried when you left Voorstod?” he asked.

“There’s no getting unmarried in Voorstod, Sammy. I’d made my vows to Phaed. I’d made them before a priest, as they do in Voorstod, and there’s no undoing of it. The men can undo it, but the women never. For women, vows made before the priest are sacred.”

“Not so sacred you didn’t just walk off and leave him, though,” said Sam, a hint of his buried anger coming through.

Maire gave him a shocked look. “Well of course, I didn’t
just walk off and leave him
. After Maechy died, I went to your dad and I told him I could not go on living there in Voorstod, and I begged him to come with me here to Hobbs Land. ‘You’ve riled your belly over the Gharm long enough,’ I told him. ‘Forget them and come with me. There’s no Abolitionists on Hobbs Land for you to pain your guts over, and there’s no slaves to get in a passion about, and no marriage there either, so you would be rid of that burden as well.’ He disliked marriage, Sammy. That’s nothing rare among the men of Voorstod. They do it, because it’s the only way they can get virgin brides and sure sons, but it’s only what they call a temporary device. They don’t believe in it for men. In their Paradise, there will be no wives.”

Sam ignored most of this. “So, what are you afraid of? That some priest will be with your nephew, to drag you back to Ahabar?”

She shook her head. “It’s so strange, his being here. It smells of conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy!” he laughed. “Mam, you’re being as paranoid as Zilia Makepeace! The boy is here, he wants to see you because you were famous. Conspiracy!”

She stood up straight, glaring at him, “Sam, I say to you what my grandma once said to my mother in my hearing when I was yet a child. I’ve remembered her words all my life. She said, ‘Conspiracy is dark and dirty, and vengeance is heavy as rock, and being a slaver presses a man down until he can see nothing but black dirt around him, like the walls of a grave. Men become accustomed to that darkness when they are in the habit of death. It pains such men to come into the light.’ Now, Sammy, this nephew of your dad’s is one of them, and it would pain him to come into the light, as it would pain Phaed himself. Dream your dreams of a kingly father all you like, Sam—oh, don’t think I can’t tell what you’re thinking, you, my own flesh—but believe me, these men sit in the dark still, conspiring with their fellows, deep in that black pit with the stones of hate above them, and there is something dreadful portending. I know it as I know my own name.” She broke off, half-choking, leaving Sam amazed and hurt.