The Fourth Circle (5 page)

And yet the gloomy space shown in the recent images was not entirely alien: for the first time on a Great Journey, other spheres appeared. There were only three, very large but unequal in size, high above the wind, where surely no spheres should have been.

The three could not roll at such height, but rather floated over the dreary environment, dipping at regular intervals behind its edge, later to emerge anew from the opposite side, flooding the great valley with the colors of rochum, lomus, and kootar. The cycle was quite brief, lasting just one day, while triunion and the subsequent swelling must have taken place somewhere in the dark beyond the boundaries.

The spheres were alert for soundless images from their remote, unknown kin, but no communication came. The three large spheres not only sent nothing but
also did not receive any of the images transmitted by travelers eager for an answer. And yet, this alien place brimmed with images, but of such a nature that the travelers—and those who received their tales—could make nothing of them.

The images showed the primal shape of all spheres—the circle. They came in all sizes and colors, interlocking circles, circles which shrank and expanded, grew out from each other or cancelled each other out. All this produced a drowsy, opiate effect, similar to that produced by the slender leaves of vorona, used to soothe the turmoil that followed triune mating.

Only a traveler on the most recent Great Journey managed to discover the source of the sleep-inducing images of many colored changing circles, which had previously seemed to come from all directions in the Round of the three great spheres. The source was also a circle, inscribed in the dusty ground—a large, glittering circle the gentle color of rochum and smelling softly of ameya, with a rim absolutely impenetrable.

The last shimpra-traveler, straining to make out what lay on the other side of the dazzling rim, source of the soporific alien images, had barely escaped being marooned in the spacious valley of the three spheres. The harder he tried, the faster the circles in the images whirled and fused, impelling him toward a sleep from which he knew there was no awakening. Although powerfully attracted to this sleep, which promised a bliss more complete than any offered by herbs, he tore himself away at the last moment, returning to relate in the silent language of images the most unusual of all the Great Journeys.

The spheres gladly received the returnee's gift, one filling them with strange forebodings but offering irresistible challenge, too. Although they had always searched for shimpra, the spheres now devoted themselves entirely to doing so.

They were impatient, full of desire that one of them should embark on another Great Journey as soon as possible, in the hope of penetrating farther, across the rim of the circle into the center of the dreamlike images. Everything else now seemed insignificant by comparison.

Not quite everything, because no sooner had the spheres spread out over the valley, pushing aside the tall blades of rochum in the shade of which the small, stunted shimpra might hide, when a call rang out, a call that had not been heard for countless cycles, to which the tribe had to respond instantly: the call to a Gathering. The search for shimpra, however urgent, was abandoned at once.

The three spheres that arrived first at the summit of the hill from which the rush to the Gathering always began waited motionless for the remaining six, whose search had taken them deeper into the valley, to join them. When the tribe finished assembling, they drew up in circular formation and rolled toward the
distant boundary of the Round, down the bare slope of the rise, then across the thick carpet of rochum and lomus, which did not long retain the imprint of their passing.

7. THE SUN IN THE HOUSE

THE FIRST MUFFLED echoes of distant thunder scattered his brethren through the jungle.

He stayed where he was.

This was not ordinary thunder followed by torrents that poured from the sky, penetrating the densest foliage, allowing no escape; his fur, though thick, would then be soaked, and in the night, though the monsoon rain was tepid, he would briefly feel the rare, unpleasant sensation of cold.

The thunder now rapidly approaching brought no sky-water, nor did it dart fiery tongues capable of enveloping a giant tree trunk in a cloak of flame and extinguishing all animals, even the largest, sheltering under it.

He differed from his brethren in possessing an unusually retentive memory.

He remembered, though it had been a long time ago, when he was very young, that this same roar had heralded the arrival of an enormous bird with four whirling wings. Then he had scampered, panic-stricken like the others, into the thicket of the jungle, losing his mother along the way. When nothing happened after the huge fat bird had landed and the noise had died, the curiosity characteristic of his species prevailed. Along with a few others, he plucked up the courage to peep through a concealing curtain of leaves.

Three creatures identical to the one who lived in the big stone house emerged from the bird, the wings of which now drooped. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of, because the one in the house had never harmed them. Not only did he not hunt them, he even let them enter the house and allowed them, too, to climb all over the boulder he revered as a pack does its leader.

Recently the creature, who lived alone in the house without the rest of his brethren, had stopped coming out. This creature lay in a corner, breathing with difficulty and seeming not to notice them any more. He recognized the creature's plight, for there were a few aged members of the pack whose fur was quite gray and who were unable even to pick the fruit that grew plentifully everywhere, so that the other younger ones had to bring it to them. Just as he would have done for a member of his pack, he brought the old one some fruit, but the old one did not seem to care.
That was a sign that it was not safe to stay in the house for long, that big predators would come soon to take the old one, just as they came for his gray brethren when, because they no longer belonged, the pack carried them, rigid, down from the trees and left them in a clearing. Why they had decided to become old and leave the pack mystified him and, like any other unknown, filled him with fear and trepidation, perhaps more so than the others.

Predators, however, did not take the old one. Three of his brethren arrived in the great noisy bird and took him up into the sky, none knew where. For a while the house remained empty. But the teeming life of the jungle filled every niche, so that it was not long before new residents moved in, mostly small creatures that posed no threat to his pack's dominance. He roamed with his brethren through the empty house, climbing the rough walls, squeezing through holes, scrambling over the vast stone leader of that other, mightier pack—a leader who might have no one to bow down before him now but whose absence of devotees could not last.

The dry thunder, quite close, from which he alone did not run into the safety of the dense forest, was bringing, he divined, a new resident for the house. When the great bird landed in the clearing with a roar so loud that the nocturnal howling of predators seemed like morning twittering in the branches, several tall creatures walked out of its belly, carrying bulky, heavy things for which he had no terms of reference and thus could not recognize.

They carried the things into the house, and soon he heard new, sharp sounds emerge from it, such as had never before resounded in the jungle. He stood at the edge of the clearing, not daring to approach. Time passed slowly, but he did not know the meaning of impatience. And then, a miracle happened.

A monotonous drone replaced the sharp sounds, a drone similar to the sound of the small river that, swollen by the monsoon rains, cut through the jungle. Not long after, all the openings were suddenly illuminated from within, as if the sun shone inside the big house. The light drove away the darkness, and the small intruders scattered wildly—fleeing outside or into any crevice where the splendor did not penetrate.

This was too much, even for him. Though he knew from experience that the tall ones posed no threat to him, his instinct was to dive for cover in the nearest thicket. Still, he did not run away, but remained hidden by the trunks and leaves, staring unblinkingly at the wonder of the big house.

For a while, nothing happened there. The brilliance poured steadily out from within, and the droning continued unchanged. Then the tall creatures came out
and headed for the big bird that silently and patiently awaited them. All except one stepped into the bird. Soon after, the great wings began to whirl with terrible force and with a gigantic roar lifted the unwieldy bird and its bulky, but now somewhat reduced burden, over the treetops into the blue. Before turning back to the house, the remaining tall one stood for a while gazing after it.

The last echoes of passing thunder had long died away and given place to the everyday sounds of the jungle, which had already forgotten this brief but potent disturbance of its timeless monotony, before he gathered courage to step out of the thicket and move toward the stone house.

He moved cautiously, fighting an instinct that told him to retreat, to fly. A more retentive memory was not the only thing that distinguished him from others of his kind. Perhaps more importantly, he could at times overcome instinct, that ancient, inherited wisdom of race survival, and subordinate it to his intelligence: a course of action liable to be lethal for the individual in a world full of danger, except in rare cases when the intelligence was of the right kind and the circumstances favorable.

Using its footholds to climb the outer wall, he found himself in an opening that allowed him to see inside and began to get the feeling that he had taken the right course of action. The scene inside differed from all previous ones. Above the stone leader of the pack, a sun was blazing, so strong he could not look straight into it. The large room contained things he had never seen before: strange things that did not exist in the jungle. He did not understand them.

The feeling that the risk had been worth it, however, did not require any kind of understanding. Even if he had had the ability to speak, he would never have been able to explain, either to himself or to others, why it was that just one look at the new resident was enough for him to realize that his whole world had been irrevocably changed.

8. THE FINGER OF GOD

THEY HAVE LOCKED him up.

In the cellar, under the iguman's residence: dark, damp, and smelling of rot, like the forecourt of Hell itself. Probably to give him a taste of the damnation that surely awaits him if he does not undo this satanic business of his. But he will not hear of it, now that he is fully in the power of the evil spirits. Instead he ridicules and teases them, mocking them with a malicious, demonic snigger, telling them that they themselves should try to paint some other godly pictures over the horror he left on the ceiling.

Indeed they tried, what else could they do, the sniveling long-robes? In abject fear, as I see well, they would like to conceal their evil fate. They tried, but it would have been better if they had not. They whitewashed the ceiling themselves, did not even call me—afraid, I daresay, that I am in some infernal covenant with the Master. Yes, they painted over the awful scenes of the underworld, which Sotona himself, by the hand of my Master, drew there in mockery of the Most Holy. They hoped to win my Master over, by hook or by crook; to persuade him to populate the vaulted ceiling with the holy ones of Heaven rather than show those desolate lands with their three hideous suns and loathsome circle, the in-signia of the Devil.

Oh yes, they concealed the awful scenes, but not for long. For just before the next dawn broke, before holy Matins as the first pale light began to chase the stars from the heavens, the diakons who had been keeping watch under the cursed vault of the ceiling to drive away the powers of darkness by their virtuous and sanctified presence rushed out in great fear as if a hundred vrags from Hell were after them and ran to the iguman's residence, crossing themselves frantically and crying, "A miracle! A miracle!"

Since they found no other words to speak of the great terror that gripped their innocent souls other than vacant, witless exclamations and since their clamor woke the whole monastery—including me, who being God's servant, sleeps as lightly as they do—we all hurried after the bewildered iguman into the church in trepidation and dark foreboding, only to receive a new, unwanted gift of Sotona.

I myself was last to arrive, held back in the monastery courtyard by a terrible, diabolical din, which I first thought arose from the bosom of the earth itself, from
the plague-ridden lairs of the demonic spawn; but when I collected myself a little, I noticed that the inhuman, fiendish laughter was coming from depths far shallower than Hell: from the cellar under the iguman's residence where my Master lay. And a chill icier than that of dawn clutched my heart.

Oh, I know only too well all the sounds he utters—pleasant and mild, harsh and angry—too well to be mistaken. It was his voice indeed, but it seemed to come out of the very jaws of the Unclean. No human creature could produce that satanic laughter. Only the perverse joy that fills the Devil when he tears yet another fallen soul from the Almighty could produce such awful howling.

For a moment I stopped as if transfixed, my gaze directed at the narrow slit, which was all that let the light of God's day into the gloomy cold of the cellar. Icy fear filled me: the fear that after the Master's terrible laughter the last trumpets of Yerichon would ring out and the Day of Judgment come upon us, that the dread hordes of the underworld would spew forth to draw us into their bottomless, fiery pit.