Tales of Neveryon (13 page)

‘I wanted to cut it up and see how its muscles worked once it calmed itself, but I just wasn’t up to catching it and tying it down. And when I came down from tying up part
of the rigging that had been torn, it had wriggled between the rail break and fallen into the calm.’ Venn stepped gingerly and unsteadily among the large rocks and small branches fallen by the stream. ‘All through the experience, however, from the moment it hove up between the rocks, till … well, really, dawn next morning, when I was miles away, I did not know if I would live or die … for all I knew, it was following along after me to rise again. Even through all my curiosity about the tentacle, I lived those hours like someone who might be obliterated from the surface of the sea as a patch of foam is dispersed by a passing dolphin’s fluke. Does such fear make everything brighter, more intense, more vivid? I suppose so. It also makes everything exhausting – an exhaustion which, when I had got my boat back to the port here, ached to be filled with … words.’ Venn walked a few more silent steps. ‘So I told about it at the inn (that used to stand where the current one does before that building was blown down in the hurricane two summers before you were born, girl) over a bowl of hot fish broth. I was still getting gooseflesh. I told it to half a dozen, who, as I started to talk, gathered a dozen more around them, all their eyes wide and all their mouths gaping, and all their heads shaking, amazed. I told them how, as my boat passed among these certain rocks, a creature, all wriggling arms and eyes, rose up and flung itself toward me. I told of my broken rail and my flooded deck and my terror and my curiosity. But as I told them, as I watched them, I realized: While for me, the value of the experience I had lived through was that, for its duration, I had not known from moment to moment if I would live or die, for them, the value of the telling was that, indeed, I
had
lived through it, that I
had
survived it, that here I was, safe and alive, confirmed as much by my solid presence as my stuttering voice and half incoherent
account, running on and on about an experience during which I just happened not to have known the outcome.’ Venn laughed. ‘And what did I
do
with my sudden realization? I went on talking, and they went on listening. The more I tried to remember the details, remember the moonlight a-slither on freckled scales, remember the fetid smell of cut muscle, remember the trail of bubbled mucus glistening, the sea water dripping from the splintered rail-end, gray outside with weathering, white splinters within, each detail recounted to convince them of
what
I had lived through – an experience in which my survival as a fact of it was outside any possible consideration – the more evidence they had, by my onrush of living talk, that I
had
lived through it, the more certain they were that I had survived
some
thing, though the “what” of it, just because of that certainty, was quite beyond them.

‘The innkeeper’s wife gave me blankets and I slept under the stairs that night with a bag of cedar chips for a pillow. And what did I think of, on and off between edgy dozings, till the window above me began to go blue? Another time I would have said I thought about what had happened to me. But it wasn’t that. I thought about what I
said
had happened to me. And slowly, remembering all my listeners’ reactions, I began to pick pieces from my own ramblings that they had seemed to recognize as true or accurate. And I began to put them in order so that these reactions would build as my reactions to the remembered experience had built. I mortared my descriptions together with explanations and directions for the experience of my listeners. And in the morning, when another group of wide-eyed men and women, who had heard of my adventures from those I had told the previous night, came and asked me what had happened, I told them … well, I told them essentially the story I told you. No stuttering, now;
no suddenly remembered details. For now it
was
a story, like any other tale I have ever amused or frightened you with. And I was now much happier with the reaction of my listeners, for now that it was a story, the telling grew and directed their responses with a certain precision that at least followed the same form as my own experience on that two-days-previous terrifying night. But I will tell you here: For all her fleshy scales and eyes and slime, for all I use the same words to tell you of her as I first used to babble of her in fear, but ordered and recalled in calmness, she is an entirely different monster.’ Venn narrowed her eyes in a way that was a smile. ‘Do you understand?’

Norema frowned. ‘I … I think so.’

‘What happened to you,’ Dell said, ‘was like the signs on the paper.’

‘And what you told the first night,’ said Enin, ‘was like what we saw in the first mirror, with its meaning all backward.’

‘And what you told again the next morning,’ Norema said, feeling rather like it was expected of her and terribly uncomfortable with the expectation, ‘was like what we saw in the second mirror. Something else entirely, with its own meaning.’

‘As much as mirrors and monsters can be alike,’ mused Venn, whose sudden distraction seemed one with Norema’s discomfort. ‘Which brings me, girl, to what you were saying about your father.’

Norema blinked; she’d thought the subject abandoned.

‘What came to mind when you were talking about your father, and working in your father’s boat yard, was … well, another example, though perhaps the least illustrative: when we were young – Ah, I used to make plans for beautiful, marvelous, impossible boats. Your father would
build models of them, when he was a boy. And once he told me that many of the things he learned from making those models were very important to the success of the real boats he builds today. My plans, his models, and his later boats, you see, are merely another example of what I am talking about. And then, you see, something else came to mind – which may finally tell you something about your father’s business as well as what I am trying to tell you. For it is yet another example: I was thinking about the Rulvyn tribes, back in the island’s hills. They are a very shy, very proud people, and they almost never come down to the shore villages. The men hunt geese and wild goats; the women provide the bulk of the food by growing turnips and other roots, fruits, and a few leaf vegetables; and when one considers the amount of hours actually spent at the various tasks – if one marked down names and made marks for the hours each actually spent working (for I did that once when I was there) – the women do far and above more work than the men toward keeping the tribe alive. But because they do not come much to the sea and they have no fish, meat is an important food to them. Because it is an important food, the hunting men are looked upon as rather prestigious creatures. Groups of women share a single hunter, who goes out with a group of hunters and brings back meat for the women. The women make pots and baskets and clothes and jewelry, which they trade with each other; they build the houses, grow and cook the food; indeed – except for very circumscribed, prestige decisions – the women control the tribe. Or at least they used to. You all have heard the tales of those who have recently gone up into the hills to spend time among the Rulvyn; our shore people come back and shake their heads, look dour, and say things are not well with the mountain folk. When I was last there, not three years ago, I walked and looked and listened and made my
signs on reed paper in order to mark and remember what I heard and saw. Up till a few years ago, the Rulvyn were tribes who lived entirely by their women exchanging goods and work with other women for whatever goods and work they needed. Even if meat were part of the exchange, the men would bring it to the women who would then do the actual bartering. From time to time men would exchange weapons, but this was still part of a prestigious ritual, not the basis of daily life. The Rulvyn were simple, proud, insular – like an island within our island.

‘But our people, here at the shore, with our bigger and bigger boats, for three generations now have been using the coins that come from Nevèrÿon to make our exchanges with. And as more and more of us went back into the hills to trade with the Rulvyn, the Rulvyn began to acquire money; and finally began to use money among themselves in order to make their exchanges. Now one of the prestige tasks of the men is to make trades with strangers to the tribe – whereas the women do all the trading and exchanging within the tribe. Three generations ago, such trading with outsiders might occur once a year, or even once in five. And it was a sumptuous tribal event. But now, perhaps once a month someone from the village travels up into the hills, and once a year at least a small party of Rulvyn men, in their colorful shoulder furs and chin feathers, come down to the port; you have all gathered at the edge of the net houses to peek at them strolling the docks. Because money was exotic as well as part of the prestige process of trading with foreigners, money went primarily to the men of the society; and indeed both the men and women of the tribe at first agreed that money
ought
to be the province of men, just as
hunting was. And the Rulvyn began to use money among themselves.

‘Now money, when it moves into a new tribe, very quickly creates an image of the food, craft, and work there: it gathers around them, molds to them, stays away from the places where none are to be found, and clots near the positions where much wealth occurs. Yet, like a mirror image, it is reversed just as surely as the writing on a piece of paper is reversed when you read its reflection on a boy’s belly. For both in time and space, where money is, food, work, and craft are not: where money is, food, work, and craft either will shortly be, or in the recent past were. But the actual place where the coin sits is a place where wealth may just have passed from or may soon pass into, but where it cannot be now – by the whole purpose of money as an exchange object. When money came among the Rulvyn, something very strange happened: Before money came, a woman with strength, skills, or goods could exchange them directly with another woman for whatever she needed. She who did the most work and did it the best was the most powerful woman. Now, the same woman had to go to someone with money, frequently a man, exchange her goods for money, and then exchange the money for what she needed. But if there was no money available, all her strength and skill and goods gave her no power at all – and she might as well not have had them. Among the Rulvyn before money, a strong woman married a prestigious hunter; then another strong woman would join them in marriage – frequently her friend – and the family would grow. Now that money has come, a prestigious hunter must first amass money – for what woman would marry a man in such a system who did
not
have money – and then go looking for good, strong workers to marry … for that is the only, way
he
can
amass more money. The women are unhappy, for now the men
make
them work, pit them against each other, blatantly and subtly chide them with the work of their co-wives. In the Rulvyn before money, the prestige granted the hunter was a compensation for his
lack
of social power. Now that money has come, prestige has become a sign
of
social power, as surely as the double stroke I make on the clay jar means that it contains forked ginger roots. And are the men happy? The Rulvyn men are strong, beautiful, proud, and their concerns were the concerns of hunters, the concerns of prestige. But since they have taken over the handling of money – with great diligence and responsibility, I might add, for they
are
proud men – now, even though the women still do all the work, the men are suddenly responsible for the livelihood of all their wives – rather than several wives sharing the responsibility for the care and feeding of a single hunter. The simple job of supplying their wives with a triweekly piece of prestigious food has become much more complex. And another sad truth is simply that the temperament needed to be a good handler of money is frequently the very opposite of the temperament needed to be a good hunter. When I went up into the hills last to talk to my Rulvyn friends, I found that since money has come, the young women are afraid of the men. The women
want
good hunters; but because they understand real power, they know that they must have good money masters.

‘In the Rulvyn before money, there were always many more unmarried males than unmarried females. Frequently the unmarried men were the not-so-skilled hunters. Outside every Rulvyn tribal ground, there is a Men’s House, rather like the thatched-over place we meet to talk every morning. The unmarried men can go there, meet there, stay there for days at a time if they like. Many of these
men were connected by friendship or family ties to some large family group, with which they ate, slept, sometimes even formed informal sexual ties with one of the wives. But such men tended to become far closer with each other – if only because they did not have even the social use the fine hunters had. Because they had the Men’s House to go to, they began to figure out money-gathering schemes there, and there plan the business ideas, and arranged their plans among themselves and one another. Very soon,
these
were the men who could afford to get married, who could take women for themselves – while the fine hunters could not. Groups of women found themselves married to and working for these new husbands who basically preferred to spend their time with one another, rather than living as the single, valued male in a communal woman’s work group. The sign of the family was no longer a fine, proud hunter content to be made much of by the women who constituted the family itself. Now the center of the family itself
was
a man, harassed and harried by the worries of uncomfortable and competing working women, women who were now the signs of
his
power, a man who would prefer to spend his time with other men in the same situation who could at least be sympathetic to his problems.