Wulfsyarn: A Mosaic (8 page)

Wilberfoss went to the training school on Assisi Central and there trained as a pilot. He specialized also in land contact. This means that in the course of a Mercy Mission he was one of the pilots who physically went to the surface of a planet either to pick up or to deliver a sick or dying life-form. He was not a contact specialist, but he showed himself to have contact skills. That is rare and special. It was in this part of his training that he learned the stealth I mentioned when Miranda came a-calling.

When Wilberfoss was convalescing in Lily’s Garden he would sometimes sit for hours talking about the days when he was a contact pilot. Extraordinary stories. Occasionally a colleague from those days would visit the Pacifico Monastery and the two of them would sit together, merry as thieves, swapping yams while the sun went down.

Wilberfoss relished excitement and difference. He liked the glamour of being a pilot and he had the energy of two men when it came to confronting hardship. He must have found the simple life of Shuttle Pilot boring, despite the feet that he rationalized his experience as necessary servitude. The problem was that he saw himself (as he states) as someone special. That need not be a bad thing in itself for it seems to me that individual human beings should see themselves as special: they are unique lifeforms. But Wilberfoss believed he had a destiny to fulfill. Thus in his mind, the strange event when he was a child and was saved after falling near the shore, and the fact of his selection for the captaincy of the
Nightingale,
were linked. Destiny.

We can say of his marriage to Medoc, the Talline woman, that it satisfied his lust for the curious and his desire to serve. He discovered the peaceful family man within the brave dare-devil. Medoc satisfied (say) ninety percent of him.

This story concerns the remaining ten percent.

T
ancredi paused and looked at Wilberfoss. It was a look which could have been envy or it could have been pity. “Assisi Central have sent me this,” he said, tapping the red-edged document. “They have invited you to become Captain of the
Nightingale
.”

Wilberfoss sat back in his chair and stared at Magister Tancredi. His face was expressionless. Then he said, “I think there has been a mistake. I never put myself forward as a candidate.”

“No mistake,” said Tancredi. “With the
Nightingale
you did not need to put yourself forward. No one did. The Magistri came looking. I flatter myself that even I, long in the tooth as I am, had a chance. But they needed a younger man. And they chose you.”

“But there are—”

“Out of all the available pilots, some of whom are undoubtedly better than you in matters mathematical and mechanical, they chose you. Or rather they
invited
you.

For the final decision must be yours.”

“Why was I not told? Why was I not interviewed?” “About two years ago, you may remember, we had a visit from the Magistri of Assisi. You were their guide. You brought them in, took them around to Kithaeron, Fum and Sesha and then saw them on their way. One of them even stayed at your house.”

“But I thought they were just on a fact-finding mission.”

“They were.”

“But they told me—”

“Accept it. They have chosen you. The honor is without parallel as far as I am concerned. Though I can see that in your case there are complications.”

Silence between the two men. Then Wilberfoss.

“Do you know how they reached their decision? Was it voted on?”

“Well, I suppose voting came into it. It usually does. But they would have spent a long time in meditation. And remember, over half the committee concerned with the
Nightingale
are quaestors. They’ll have been in trance a great deal of the time, trying to read the future, examining you, seeing you in light and dark. Few men will have been examined as you have been. Believe me. They quite possibly know you far better than you know yourself. No, more than that. I would say they definitely know you better than you know yourself. Trust them. They are not fools, nor are they politically motivated despite the stories. You are no one’s favorite. You are simply the man they have chosen. But in the end, the decision is yours.”

“Did you know I was being considered for the
Nightingale?”

“I knew you were being considered, but that is all. So were Jones of Kithaeron and Bothwell of Fum. And there must have been many, many others too. But they saw something very special in you.” Tancredi looked at Wilberfoss quizzically, with his head on one side. “Come on. Don’t tell me you are not excited.”

“I suppose I’m excited. But an honor unlooked for, not even considered or even desired, must make any man pause. I say, ‘Why me?’ I suppose the truth is I don’t feel worthy. There must be prospective Saints waiting out there. Women and men with a mark on their brow . . .

I mean, I’m not pure ...”

WULFNOTE

You who are reading this and now know something of Wilberfoss and the forces that drove him will understand this remark. And you must surely pity the ignorance of Magister Tancredi.

The conversation stopped. Tancredi shrugged. He was already deferring to Wilberfoss, and then he said, “This is getting us nowhere. Have a glass of wine with me and then go home. Talk with Medoc. You can talk with me again tomorrow.”

“I have already made part of my decision,” said Wilberfoss. “You can contact Assisi Central and tell them that I have asked to take the forty days. I need that time. And if they have taken so many years to decide on a captain for the
Nightingale,
they can surely allow me that small grace of time.”

“Of course they will. They will expect it.”

A SECOND WULFNOTE

I was there in the comer and I heard all this. The forty days is the period allowed to any member of the Order of St. Francis Dionysos when faced with a difficult decision. During this period he or she can be absolutely alone, free to commune only with their own conscience. There will be no other human being near to hand. Frequently people fast during the forty days and frequently they have visions. Usually truth prevails. It is as though there is an universal force at work compelling truth to emerge. Forty days is a long time for dishonesty to live undetected in an open human being. It is society, the pressure of other human beings, which makes for dishonesty I think. Solitude provokes crisis and crisis leads to truth.

Magister Tancredi continued. “In any case, the Magistri of Assisi would probably demand that you take the forty days and that you purge your mind. You may enter the Poverello Garden tonight if you wish. I will make all the arrangements. Lily I am sure is ready. You should take Wulf with you too. Use it to record your moods and ideas. It is a competent autoscribe, reliable and fair, although a bit pompous and old-fashioned in its expression.”

In its comer the giant autoscribe, which resembled the helmet of a Greek warrior at Troy, trembled slightly as it floated on its AG cells.

“I will take it gladly,” said Jon Wilberfoss.

Magister Tancredi raised his hand. “But before you enter the garden be sure to talk to Medoc. I suggest that you ask her to go with you. Together you two are a unit. A very powerful force. Think on it.”

“I will.”

And there the conversation ended. Both men sat for a while before the fire and sipped their wine.

They seemed to be communicating though they did not speak. I am not implying any telepathic ability. I have noticed that human beings sometimes seem to communicate most successfully when they are simply sitting together and not speaking. Both men were relaxed. Both were drifting in their minds, the hour being late.

Tancredi I am sure was remembering the time when, before he became Magister of Pacifico, he was a Master Pilot in charge of a hospital ship. And I am also sure he took pride in the feet that one of his domestic pilots had been accorded the singular honor of being invited to captain the
Nightingale.

As for Wilberfoss... At that time I did not know what he was thinking. I was surprised that he had accepted the news so calmly. I was surprised that he did not hurry down the hill to tell his wife Medoc. I was surprised that he stayed so long. I saw him swirl the red wine in his glass. There was a flourish in the gesture. I thought to myself. “He is toasting himself,” and at that time I did not realize how dangerous that can be for a human being. Perhaps, even as he sat there, comfortable before the fire, with wine in his glass and basking in the admiration of his Magister, he already thought of himself as “called,” as one of the elect whom Fate had selected to fulfill its mission. Perhaps in his mind he went back to that day on his Homeworld Icarus when he met and was possessed by the bull-headed God, perhaps he remembered the miraculous rescue of a foolhardy boy outside the dome of his family farm.

Whatever.

The news that he had been chosen to captain the
Nightingale
gave him a sense of destiny, and all his woes spread from that.

The wine finished, Wilberfoss stood up and bowed to Magister Tancredi. Tancredi showed him out, walking with him to the door. I drifted behind.

Wilberfoss ran down the hill. He paused at the lookout and stood above the bay staring up at the stars. Then it was on again. He never spoke to me.

Knowing where he was going I let myself drift out from the cliff over the dark water and glide down until I was on a level with the arcade where he had his house. Wilberfoss came pounding down the pathway and beckoned to me. He threw open his front door and let me glide through first. I heard the voice of Medoc calling, “Jon. Jon Wilberfoss, is that you? What called you away from shantra?”

Usually Medoc spoke in Common Tongue, the native language of Jon Wilberfoss, for Wilberfoss had no real ability to speak other languages despite his contact skills. Nevertheless, while she spoke the Common Tongue she used Talline expressions whenever necessary for there are some concepts which cannot be translated. “Shantra” is one. (It will be necessary for you to understand something of the Talline language if you are to understand this story.) “Shantra” means literally “the cradle of the stiff-cocked one.” If it had been a man speaking he would have used the word “perithorn” meaning, literally, “the ship’s deck where the womb receives.” Both words have a sense of rocking, both are concerned with conception and both convey (though I cannot) the idea of fulfillment.

Medoc was up and dressed in her nightgown and sitting by the fire in the dining-room when I drifted in. She was not expecting me and screamed when she saw me. Not surprising. I am big and I am silent in movement, and in resembling the baleful mask of war I am, I know, frightening. Wilberfoss was close behind and immediately called to her not to be alarmed. He had not expected her to be up which means he did not know her sensibility. I drifted to a comer of the room away from the fire and settled myself just under the ceiling. I spoke words in the Talline language stating that I wanted to be forgiven for barging in and that I wanted hereafter to be ignored like a potted plant. She answered, “Tath ot-to.” “So be it.” But of course, I am not a potted plant. I observe everything.

Wilberfoss came in and joined her at the fire. They kissed and touched intimately after the manner of humans and Tallines. Then Wilberfoss drew back. “You look serious and sad,” he said.

“Of course I am serious and sad when my tirpara (quickener) steals away without waking me.”

“Yes. That was silly of me.” Wilberfoss sat down on the floor in front of the fire and picked up the poker and stirred the logs.

“Something important must have happened.”

“One of the callers came for me in the night. Magister Tancredi sent her. They didn’t want to use the communicator in case there were ears listening.”

Medoc’s eyes widened. “Ears? What ears? Do you mean me? Our children? Do not speak in riddles, Jon Wilberfoss. Why were you called? Or is it something you cannot tell me? Is there trouble or joy in the calling?”

Wilberfoss took a deep breath. “It is everything,” he said. “Trouble and joy. I don’t know where I am yet.” He stared into the fire. Medoc looked at his head. She saw the way his hair and beard caught highlights from the fire, then she leaned forward and kissed him in his hair. She loosened the front of her gown so that if he wished to touch her he could. The gown opened revealing Medoc’s four breasts, her belly and thighs.

“You should have woken me up,” she said. “No matter what. If we are one flesh, whether I am grown from your rib or you are grown from my little finger as we Tallines believe, you should have woken me.”

“Tancredi was instructed to call me in this way. He didn’t have a choice.”

“But
you
did.” Medoc stood up and moved to the table. She poured two glasses of wine and selected some portions of meat from under a domed contrivance in the middle of the table. “Here, let’s eat and drink together, at least,” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘At least’?”

Medoc did not answer this question. “Drink the wine and tell me your news.”

“I have been asked by Assisi Central to become Captain of the
Nightingale."

Medoc was chewing, pulling the flesh from a bone with her teeth. She sat back by the fire, relaxed. She paused briefly in her chewing. “And what is your decision?”

“I don’t know. I have told them I want to take the forty days retreat.”

“Are you not happy as you are now?”

“I am very happy.”

“Well then?”

“But I can’t ignore the call. That would not be human.”

“Ah.”

“No, I don’t mean that to sound the way it came out. I mean, they have asked me—the Magistri of Assisi. They have their reasons. Perhaps they see more than I do. I don’t know. I want time to think. Time to decide. It is a great honor. A great chance to do good. The best of opportunities to bring relief and some happiness to many species.”

“If you accept their offer what would you propose doing with me and the children?”

Wilberfoss looked at her with genuine surprise. “Why, you’d come with me of course. We’d all be together. There’s nothing we would lack aboard the
Nightingale.”
Medoc shrugged. “I don’t think there is much for me aboard the
Nightingale.
I have my place here, on this world which you call Juniper, but which I call home.”