The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 (10 page)

‘One of four species that were used to make you was easily roused to killing. Some of us on Canopus did not wish to make use of that material, but others did, for this was – and still is – a physically strong species, enduring, able to bear hardship.'

‘When we all stood there on those hillsides looking down at that dead antelope, and my old friend Marl took up the knife to cut it open, I felt thrills of sensation all through me – and I was afraid to call this pleasure, but I knew that it was. And when the stomach was split from throat to tail, and the guts fell out, I knew how easy it would be to plunge my hands into that mass and then …' A red mist blew across my mind, and when it had gone, the frosty twigs of the roof, the grey rocks, the pinched face of Johor looked even more meagre and ugly.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘you did well to be careful.'

‘Yet you called us there, to watch the body of that animal cut up. We stood under a warm sun, and the wind brought us the spicy scents from the lake, and we saw the guts laid in a heap there, with the heart and the liver and the other organs, the head and the tail and the hide together, and the bones laid bare like the branches of a tree. And we were restless and moved about on our hillsides, and we sniffed at the scent of blood which seemed to belong to our memories, and then you came out from among us and stood surrounded by those bloody bits of meat and bone. And you said to us, “You are wondering, every one of you, where the beast has gone – where what is real of the beast, as you know it. Where its charm, its friendliness, its grace, its way of moving that delights you. All of you know that what is lying here is not what is true about this dead beast. When we look around at the hillsides, where the wind is rippling the grasses and whitening the bushes, we see there the same spirit that was the truth of this dead animal – we see a quickness and freshness and delight. And when we look up now at the play of the clouds – there is the reality of the beast. And when we look around at each other and see how beautiful we are, again we see the beast, the pleasantness and rightness of it …” And so you spoke, Johor, for a long time, before you stopped talking of beauty and grace. Then you bent over the piles of meat and bones, and you held up in your bare hands the heart, and you said to us that each one of us is a package of hearts, livers, kidneys, entrails, bones, and each one of these is a whole and knows itself. A heart knows it is a heart and feels itself to be that. And so with a liver and every other thing inside every animal, inside you. You are a parcel, a package of smaller items, wholes, entities, each one feeling its identity, saying to itself, Here I am! – just as you do, in moments of sensing what you are. But this assembly of heart, lungs, skin, blood, packaged so tight and neat inside a skin, is a whole, is a creature … And you made us laugh, Johor, standing there on that lovely morning, which I remember as colour, colour – blues and greens and soft reds and yellows – saying that a liver probably believed it was the best and highest organ in a body, and a heart too, and the blood too, and perhaps they even believe that a body is made up entirely of heart, or liver or blood … Yes, I remember how we all laughed. And that was how that lesson ended. And when Canopus came again to visit us, you brought with you the instruments for seeing the very small, and for a long time, every one of us, down to the smallest child, studied the very small through these instruments.'

‘And what did you remember of that occasion, what stayed with you most strongly? Was it the unlikeable sight of the bloody organs spilled out on the ground, and your pity for the beast?'

‘No, it was how you taught us to look for the charm and quickness of the animal everywhere – in the movement of water, or the patterns flocks of birds used to make as they swirled and darted and flowed about the sky.'

Alsi came sliding quickly into the shed, opening the door as little as she could. She was heavy and clumsy in her carapace of skins. She smiled at the two of us, though, and went about her work of pushing the heathers and lichens and bark through the openings into the pens of the snow animals. It took a long time, and I was remembering how quick she had once been. When she had finished she stood in front of us and opened the front of her coat, and we saw there the little confiding face of one of her pets, with its bright blue eyes, and she stroked it, in a way that said how she needed this contact with aliveness, with trust, and she said: ‘The Representatives for the Lake say that there are few creatures left in it.'

‘Do not worry,' I said, as Johor did not speak. ‘We shall not be needing much more food.'

She nodded, for she was already beginning to understand what was happening. She said: ‘News comes in from many towns and villages now that the people have decided not to eat, but to let themselves die.'

Johor said: ‘Please collect together as many of you as have the will for it, and go to these places and say to them, Canopus asks you to stay alive for as long as you can. Say it is necessary.'

‘It is necessary?'

‘Yes.'

‘Although we shall all die very soon?'

This was only the breath of a reproach, and she found it hard to look at him. But she did, and there was such a bewilderment there he felt it strike him – I could see how he shifted his limbs about inside the skins, as if he were adjusting himself to take on a physical burden. She was such an honest direct creature, so strong, so fine – and she had not let herself go at all into the general lassitude and indifference.

‘There is more than one way of dying,' he said gently.

He looked straight into her eyes. She looked back. It was a moment when invisible doors seemed to want to open, want to let in truths, new knowledge … I could feel in myself these pressures. I was watching her eyes, so bravely searching Johor's. Meanwhile she stroked and stroked the head of her little friend, who looked up at her with such trust.

‘Very well,' she said. ‘I will see that the message gets to them all.'

And Johor nodded, in a way that said: Yes, I can count on you, and she slid out again, letting in the roar of the storm outside, and a flurry of white flakes that did not melt, but lay in a patch on the stone of the floor near the door.

I said to Johor: ‘It is easier to bear the news of the death of a million people than to think that Alsi will die of starvation inside a heap of stinking furs. And I hate that in me, Johor. I have never been able to accept that partiality in us.'

‘You are complaining that we constructed you inadequately,' he remarked, not without humour.

‘Yes, I suppose I am. I cannot help it. I have never been able to see someone weep and agonize because of the death of someone close, yet respond not at all to some general ill or danger, without feeling I am in the presence of some terrible lack, some deep failure.'

‘You forget that we did not expect for you such ordeals.'

‘Ah, Canopus, you do indeed expect a lot of us poor creatures, who are simply not up to what is needed.'

‘And yet when Alsi stood there just now, and took on so well and so bravely what I asked her, it seemed to me that as a species you are proving to be very capable of what is needed.'

‘Again, one person, one individual is made to represent so many!'

And, as I spoke, I felt now familiar pressures, the announcement deep in myself of something I should be understanding.

And that was when I let myself go away into sleep, having taken in what I could for that time. And when I woke Johor was sitting patiently, waiting for me to resume. I had not done much more than register: Here I am! – and add to it the thought: But the ‘I' of me is not my own, cannot be, must be a general and shared consciousness – when Johor said: ‘Doeg, tell me what you all learned during that long time when you studied the material of your planet through the new instruments.'

It was very quiet. The raging of the wind had stopped. I imagined how outside the snow would be lying in billows of fresh white. Through the snow Alsi would be pushing her way, waist high, accompanied by those she had been able to rouse, and others would be trudging to the near towns and villages wondering if they would get there before the storm came again and crowded the air with white, white, white …

‘We learned that everything is made up of smaller things. And these of the smaller and finer … these organs of ours, a heart or a liver, which we don't think of at all, but know are there, doing their work, are composed of all sorts of parts, of every kind of shape– strings and lumps and strips and layers and sponges. And these bits and pieces are made up of cells of all kinds. And these 
–
 every one of which has an energetic and satisfactory life of its own, and a death too, for you can observe these deaths, like ours – are composed of clusters of smaller living units, and molecules, and then these are made up again of just so many units, and these, too …'

My eyes, which had in fancy been dissecting a lump of flesh, a heart, seeing it dissolve into a seethe of tiny life, now again perceived Johor, a mound of skins, from which a pallid face showed. But even so, it was unmistakably Johor who sat there, a presence, a strength – a
solidity.

‘Johor,' I said, ‘I sit here feeling myself solid, a weight of matter, dense, with a shape I know every slope and surface of, and my mind is telling me that this is nothing – for I know that through what we have seen with your devices.'

‘What then was there when you came to the minutest item that we can see?'

‘There is a core – of something. Yet that dissolves and dissolves again. And around it some sort of dance of – pulsations? But the spaces between this – core, and the oscillations are so vast, so vast … that I know this solidity I feel is nothing. A shape of mist, I am, a smear of tinted light, as when we see 
– 
or saw, for we see only snow now, filling the spaces of sunlight – a spread of light with motes floating there. I am, from a perspective of vision very far from my own proper eyes, not dense or solid at all … But Johor, while I can see what it is you have been leading me to say to you, that this heaviness … for I am so heavy, so heavy, so thick and so heavy I can hardly bear it – this heaviness is nothing at all. A shape of light that has in it particles slightly denser in some places than in others. But what my mind knows is of no use to my lumpishness, Johor. What you see of me, with those eyes of yours that belong to another planet, a differently weighted star – I can imagine, for I have seen cells and molecules disappear into a kind of dance, but …'

‘A dance that you modify by how you observe it. Or think of it,' he remarked.

The silence that is a listening deepened around us. But the claims of my discomfort and my impatience made me break it. ‘And yet this nothingness, this weight and labour of matter that lies so painfully on us all, is what you work with, Johor, for you sit here, you sit in this freezing place, and what you say is, Don't let yourselves die yet, make the effort to keep alive – and what you are wanting to keep alive are these bodies, the flesh that disappears when you look at it with different eyes, into a something like motes with the sun on them.'

Yes, I did sleep then, dropped off, went away, and came back remarking: ‘I have often wondered, when I looked at the tiny oscillations and pulsations that compose us, where, then, are our thoughts, Johor? Where, what we feel? For it is not possible that these are not matter, just as we are. In a universe that is all gradations of matter, from gross to fine to finer, so that we end up with everything we are composed of in a lattice, a grid, a mesh, a mist, where particles or movements so small we cannot observe them are held in a strict and accurate web, that is nevertheless nonexistent to the eyes we use for ordinary living – in this system of fine and finer, where then is the substance of a thought?

‘I watch myself, Johor … I feel myself … inside this mass of liquids and tissues and bones and air which is so heavy, so very heavy, but which is nevertheless nothing, scarcely exists – when I feel anger, does anger blow through the interstices of the mesh and web which is what I know myself to be? Or when I feel pain, or love … or … I say these words, and everyone knows what I mean by anger, by wanting, by loss, and all the rest, but do you have instruments on Canopus that can see them? Can
you
see them, Johor, with those different eyes of yours? Do you see me sitting here, this poor beast Doeg, as a smear of tinted light, changing in colour as rage or fear sweeps through me? Where from, Johor? The substance of our flesh, the matter which makes us, dissolves into – vast spaces, defined by the movements of a dance. But
we
have not yet put fear or loneliness under instruments.'

I went off to sleep again – into a dream so vivid and satisfying and detailed that it was a world as strongly defined as anything I had known in waking life, on our planet or on any other. The landscape I moved through had something of our planet about it, and yet was not; events, people, feelings – all were known to me, yet not in ordinary life. And I had dreamed this dream before, and recognized it, or rather, the setting of the dream. As I entered the dream I was saying to myself, Yes, I know this place, because
I know its flavour.
And I woke after some sort of interval, long or short, and the atmosphere of the dream was so strong that I brought it with me, and it lay shimmering in beguiling colours that were the stuff of memory to us now since colour had been taken from our world, over the frosty greys and browns of the inside of the shed. And then the dream faded, and I said: ‘I have been dreaming.'

‘Yes, I know. You have been laughing and smiling, and I have been watching you.'

‘Johor, I could tell you the story of my dream, for it had a structure, a beginning and a development and an end, just like the tales of Doeg, the storyteller, and I could describe the incidents and the adventures and the people in it, some of them I know and some unknown – but I could never describe the
atmosphere
of the dream, although it is an atmosphere so strong, and unique to this dream, and to this cycle of dreams, that I could never mistake it. From the first moment I enter this particular landscape of dream, or even as I approach it from another dream, I know it, I know the air, the feel, the taste of it. I could not describe to you or to anyone what this atmosphere is. There are no words for it. And yet the realms of emotions and of thoughts are analogous to those of dreams. For an emotion has a flavour and a taste, a
feel
to it, that is not describable in words, but you can say to anyone “love” or “longing” or “envy” – and they will know exactly what you mean. And the emotions in you that are of the class of “love” will have the same quality, and will be the same to everyone else, so the word “love” is a communication, we know what we mean. And when a thought, which is properly colourless and tasteless, is tinged with grief, or vindictiveness, it has a taste, its own being, so, experiencing this grief-laden or joy-bringing thought, first there is the experience and then the word and I say to you, or to Alsi, “I am thinking a thought that has the quality of joy,” and you and everyone shares my experience. And this flavour or taste
is a substance
, is matter, is material, for everything is, everything must be; for if the minute dance that dissolves at the core which is no core at the heart of an atom is material, then so must be passion or need or delight. Can you, Johor, see where the pulses of the atom dissolve into patterns of movement of which you can say: This is envy, this is love?