Authors: Pamela Sargent
“Very well,” she replied, trying to sound calm. “But you must stay here, you must not come to the village. I'm sure you will find much of interest here. You can, for example, go inside the mountains and explore the wonders there.” She looked very hard at Etey as she spoke, hoping that might keep the woman satisfied and her curiosity at bay.
“Then I guess you will have to go,” Reiho said. “Can you at least get back to us if you must leave again?”
Daiya swallowed, knowing she would have to let them believe she might want to return to the comet. “Wait for five days, five risings and settings of the sun. If I am not back on the sixth day, go. It will mean I am safe in the village and will not return.”
“It may mean you are dead,” Etey said, gazing at Daiya without blinking.
“Yes, it may mean that,” Daiya replied, trying not to shout: Reiho narrowed his eyes and frowned. “And what could you do then? It would be even more dangerous for you.” She glared at Etey. “If you don't care about yourself, think of Reiho. Do you want him to die because of your foolishness?”
“We shall be careful,” Reiho said in a soft voice. He looked at Etey as he spoke. “We will not be reckless.”
Daiya glanced at the woman, than at the boy, sensing the division between them. “Remember,” she said to Etey, “that what you see here is not just a picture inside your Homesmind, from which you can withdraw as you please.”
Etey nodded. “I understand.”
“Good.” Daiya sat down.
“Are you not going now?” Reiho asked.
She brushed some hair off her forehead. “It is too late to go now, the sun will soon be behind the mountains.” That was not the only reason. She could fly back to the village fairly easily if she drew on the power beneath the mountains, but so rapid a journey would arouse the suspicions of the Merging Selves, who would wonder where she had found the strength and overreact out of fear. She also needed time to prepare for the encounter.
Her stomach gurgled; she quieted it. “I am hungry.”
Reiho went into the shuttle to get some food.
The dome above her was darkening as the sun rose. Daiya crept from her seat carefully, not wanting to disturb Reiho.
The boy was still asleep, his legs stretched out, one hand hanging over the side of his reclining seat. She watched him for a few moments, certain she would not see him again. A weight pressed against her chest as she breathed. Reiho had tried to do what he thought was right, and he had paid a price for it.
She was not yet sure how she felt about Reiho. She had a bond with him, though it was not like the bond she had once had with Mausi, or with Harel. Reiho would remember her; she would remember him.
She climbed out of the craft. The door slid back quietly behind her. Etey sat on the ground, awake, as she had been all night, kept warm by her lifesuit. Her eyes were half-open, her irises hidden under her lids; only the whites showed.
Daiya tapped her lightly on the shoulder. The woman looked up, focusing on her. “What are you doing, Etey?”
“Playing a game with Homesmind.”
“A game?”
“It is difficult to explain. Homesmind presents images to my mind, and we play with them. It is partly a mathematical game, partly an artistic effort. You are going now?”
Daiya nodded. She wanted to dawdle, postpone the journey, now that it was upon her.
“Do you wish to say farewell to Reiho?”
She gazed at the shuttle, and swallowed. “I think it is better if I do not. Remember what I have told you.” She touched Etey's mind, sensing that the woman's dream of speaking to the villagers directly was now at war with her concern for Reiho.
“I shall remember.”
“There are machines under the mountains to whom you might speak. Satisfy your curiosity there, if you must. Even your weak mind should be able to contact theirs.”
Etey pursed her lips and was silent.
“Farewell.”
Daiya began to walk away from the craft, to the northwest, toward the mountains. She felt the strength of the machines flow through her, knowing it would be her defense against the villagers if they would not accept her. Without her knowledge of what lay under the mountains, they could not focus on the machines and draw the power from them that she could; their strength would be more diffuse. And they were more used to restraint than she was, being older. She could protect herself against them if necessary; at least she had a chance. She tried not to think of what she would do if the villagers rejected her, and she survived. She would have to settle that when she came to it.
She trembled as she thought of the encounter. She was going back to Anra, to Brun and Silla, to Cerwen and Leito and Morgen, to Nenla, to Harel. She was going back to those who might turn out to be her enemies. They would all stand by passively if the Merging Selves wished it; they would pour their power into the Net to destroy her if need be. She tried to imagine that, knowing her own weakness. If she had to endure watching those she loved trying to kill her, even the machines might not help her. The despair might destroy her; she might turn her power against herself.
She continued to walk, knowing she wanted to be out of Etey's sight before she flew, though not sure why. She thought of Etey and the people of the comet. They knew nothing of life, nothing of despair or work or love. They hid from life, making parts of themselves lifeless, and called it living. They played with images and symbols, calling it both work and play, contradicting themselves. They engaged in teaching and training children and called it being a parent. They amused themselves with sex and called it love. They had built a machine, and it had surpassed them. They were truly great fools. Yet they too were people. The Merged One, if It truly existed, had created them, and Cerwen had said that God loved fools; they made people laugh, and laughter could join one to eternity for a brief moment.
She tried to laugh. A gurgling rose in her throat; she choked, her belly contracted. Tears stung her eyes. A sound escaped her, a cry, harsh and bitter. Her stomach heaved. Tears rolled down her face.
Her people were fools as well. They had built machines and then denied them. God must love her people greatly; God's laughter must have shaken the stars. The minds under the mountains were awake once again. She thought of that, and the sand under her feet grew brown as the sunlight dimmed. The machine-minds were waiting for something; she sensed their anticipation and was frightened.
She shook her head and the blue sky brightened again. She lifted herself and flew, up toward the mountains.
13
Daiya flew over the foothills, seeing the shimmer of a brook below her. It looked like the brook where she had rested just before seeing Reiho's craft for the first time, when her world had still had permanence and solidity. She hovered over the plains, feeling no loss of strength, knowing she could float there indefinitely if she wished. Somehow she found that difficult to accept; it was against all her training. The power might be infinite, but her body's ability to channel it and her mind's capacity for using it were not. She would still have to be careful. She flew on for a bit, then alighted in the tall grass. She reminded herself that she was going home. She did not feel as though she was.
She walked, keeping up her wall with little effort. She would be keeping many things from the village, or trying to do so. She no longer felt guilt about secrets; she had gone too far for that. She could not yet reveal her knowledge to the village, to people who had no way of comprehending it. She was startled by the thought; it seemed more like an idea Etey would hold than one of her own. She was ashamed at the notion.
A cloud of birds suddenly rose in front of her, singing. They fled over the plain, becoming specks against the sky. Flocks of birds did not lack unity. She recalled the ducks and geese of the village and how they waddled together, moving with one another to one side, then to another. Their young, piping, were a fuzzy yellow entity. People, she thought, should have been more like birds.
She tried to keep her mind calm, to preserve herself for her meeting with the village. Her shoulder muscles were tight, her neck stiff. She wondered if she should be frightened; she seemed to have left her fear back in the mountains. She was going back to her home, to see those she had lived with all her life, the people she loved. It was an event that should have made her feel something, and she was numb.
She lifted from the ground again, deciding at once that she wanted to get back, that thinking about it for too long out here would only make things worse. She flew, throwing an arm over her forehead to protect her eyes from the wind. The plain raced beneath her. She felt the pull of the Net, stronger now; the village would be waiting for her. She approached the plains bordering the village. Wooly sheep clustered in groups as they grazed. She set down at the edge of the fields, gazing toward the huts in the distance.
The village seemed altered. The huts were smaller and shabbier, their grassy tops flimsy, their brick walls drab. The water in the irrigation ditches was cloudy and dirty; the field smelled of manure and compost. The paths among the huts were cramped and narrow. Several people working in the fields nearby were watching her; she sensed their concern. She noticed the frayed edges of their tunics, the roughness of their weathered skin. They stared at her, but did not approach.
Iron bonds seemed to bind her chest; her lungs pressed against them as she inhaled. She squinted, trying to see the village as she remembered it. She let part of herself past her wall, trying to see the village with her mind as well as her eyes. She saw the streets grow wider, the huts cleaner, the water clearer. She was home. She clung to the vision, wanting to return to the remembered village, not the one her eyes had seen. She swallowed, and her jaws tightened. She hid behind her wall again, thinking that what the minds under the mountains called consciousness only made the world uglier.
Another group was leaving the village and coming toward her, led by Jowē TeiyeVese. The old woman walked slowly and cautiously. The wind ruffled her silver mane. Leito was next to Jowē, clasping the old woman's elbow; Cerwen was behind her. Daiya caught a glimpse of auburn hair; Harel. Her heart fluttered, then thumped. Suddenly the others were only shadowy shapes around him.
—Harel—she cried. The name shot out from her, calling his soul. She was thrown against the wall surrounding him.—Harel—A tendril touched her. She felt his reluctance. He began to withdraw.—Harel, don't—
—I don't know you—he replied as he shored up his wall.
—Don't tell me that—
—I don't know you. You've changed even more. There is something in you, you are even more separate now—She sensed a bit of his love, now drowning in fear.—What have you done to yourself, Daiya?—
She longed to tear his wall apart, knowing she could do so with little effort. She held back, wrenching her eyes and mind from him and looking toward the others. She was tied by invisible bonds. The world was now smaller, the village a prison. She pushed and the bonds snapped like bits of thread.
Jowē's head jerked up. She came toward Daiya. The others lingered behind, afraid to come closer. She peered at Daiya with her brown eyes.
—You have not passed your ordeal—the old woman said,—and you still live—Daiya felt the thoughts of all the Merging Selves in Jowē and trembled.—Have you suffered another kind of ordeal? Something has happened to you, and we must know what it is—
—I saw the darkness, the creature with no mind—Daiya replied.—I saw it growing in the desert, ready to swallow me, and I tried to resist, shielding myself from it. I was sure I would die. And then I saw that it was only our fear, our separation from the Net, that created it, and I realized that it was an illusion. When I understood that, it had no more power over me, and then it disappeared, I could no longer perceive it, though my companions still did. I know that this shouldn't have happened—She paused.
—I see that you have said part of the truth, but not all of it—Jowē thought.—You are changed, you are something that has never existed in our world. We must know more, so that we can make certain it doesn't happen again—
She felt the force of the Merging Ones pushing against her wall. It shook; the air around her vibrated. She reinforced the wall, hiding behind it.
—Why do you say it mustn't happen again?—Daiya asked.—Is that all you can say to something you don't understand? You don't even know what's happened, why do you assume it's evil?—She felt the villagers withdrawing, protecting themselves from dangerous thoughts.
—It is something new, something which separates you from us—
—People like us were once something new—Daiya replied.—Even our legends say that. Why was that newness good and anything else bad?—
—The Merged One touched us and changed us, showing us the truth, and the Merged One embodies all good. You have not been touched by God. You ask too much. You keep up your wall and we cannot see what is inside you. You have power, too much power, and you have not yet learned restraint. Let down your wall—
Daiya strengthened it, drawing on all the power she could.
—Let down your wall—
—You want to destroy me—Daiya thought.—You want to tear out what I know, what I've gone through, you know I may not survive that—
—That is unimportant. If you remain separate, you condemn yourself anyway. You will be apart from us and apart from God. Your only hope lies in sharing yourself with us—
—I shall not let down my wall—
Jowē glared at her balefully.—Then we shall tear it down—
Harel gasped. His eyes widened as he looked at Daiya. His love had, at least temporarily, pushed above the surface of his fear. Daiya steadied herself. She felt the assault of the Merging Ones; they battered against her barrier. She held her shield. Claws scraped and dug at her mind. She fought them off, resisting. She drew on the machines under the mountains, fortifying her defenses with their power. She thought: I could strike out, push them away. But she did not dare, knowing she might lose control. She could only resist.
A whirlwind rose from the field. Jowē stepped back, standing with the others. The whirlwind shrieked, whipping the woman's hair; then it swooped toward Daiya. It swirled around her, ripping at her wall. She held her ground. The earth shook; she stood on waves of dirt and grass. Her legs gave way and she toppled forward, still holding her wall.
The wind beat at her, stinging her face, thundering against her shield. A crack appeared in the earth, becoming a ravine, threatening to swallow her. She clung to the ground, her hands in the dirt, keeping up her wall. The ravine became a chasm, a black pit, impossibly deep.
Jowē stood across the chasm, on the other side, her eyes burning. The wind tore at Daiya, pushing her toward the black crevice. She held on, almost hearing the machines hum as they poured their power into her. The wall shook, cracking under the strain. Fire poured into her, searing her. She sealed the breach. The whirlwind became a tornado, trying to tear her from the ground. She held on, waiting. Every Merging Self in the village was assaulting her, screaming at her through the howling wind. She heard their voices, though not their words, and felt their anger.
The storm subsided. The crack in the earth disappeared. The field was as it had been. She lifted her head and climbed to her feet, trembling.
Harel was staring at her, partly relieved that she had survived, partly terrified of what it might mean. Jowē clutched her white tunic, wrapping her arms about herself.—I do not understand—she thought.—You should not have been able to resist—
Daiya glared angrily at her, careful to keep up her wall.—You can gain nothing from me that way—she responded.—I came here prepared to try to share my experience with you, but afraid of what you might do to me. You have proven that I was right to be afraid. Do you think I don't want to be part of the village again? You could have come to me and asked me to share things willingly with you, but instead you try to tear them from me—
—You are not fooling me—Jowē thought.—You show a part of the truth and keep the rest to yourself. You ask us to accept something without revealing what it is. You would not be so afraid if what you held was not evil. One with nothing to fear does not have to endure such an onslaught. That is the truth, isn't it? You carry something terrible inside you which you are afraid to release—
Daiya was silent, not knowing how to answer. What Jowē said was true, though she would not have put it in those terms. If she conveyed her knowledge to them, she did not see how the village could remain as it was. Rather than accept it, they would cast her out, if they could not destroy her. She would be an exile, unable to keep up her guard constantly. Eventually, someone would crush her when she was unable to defend herself, and destroy her in an unguarded moment. Jowē and the other Merging Ones could join together and, with the strength of the old woman's mind, touch another village, and another, summoning everyone on Earth to destroy her. She could not withstand them all.
Jowē turned and began to walk back to the village, the others following her. Only Cerwen and Harel remained. Her grandfather reached out an arm to her. She stared suspiciously at him.
—I will not force you to speak—Cerwen thought.—You claim you are willing to share what has happened with us. Here we are, your grandfather and the boy who wanted to be your partner. Will you speak now—
She sat down at the edge of a ditch.—You know that if I speak to you, I speak to everyone here—she answered.—You cannot join me in separation from the others—She looked at Harel—Why are you here? Did you want to see me die?—She knew it was not true, but she wanted to punish him for his failing love.
—The Merging Ones didn't want me here—he replied.—But I had to come, I thought you might be as you were, I thought—His thoughts failed. She saw his dream: their hut, their partnership, their children, their life. The Daiya in his dream smiled, merged with him, accepted the world, was calm, had no questions. She could not recognize herself. Even her face was different; pretty, placid, serene. She had never seen that face when she stood near still water on sunny days.
—You don't love me as I am—she thought.—If the Merging Ones had torn half my mind from me and left me peaceful and unable to question, a living shell of what I was, you would be happy, and accept me, and feel no loss. I can tell that is true—
Harel looked away from her. She realized that the ordeal had changed him too. He had learned the wisdom of restraint and acceptance; the black thing he had resisted had robbed him of any faint stirrings of rebelliousness, which was, of course, the purpose of the rite. The village held him, it would hold him forever. He could not love an outsider.
—Let me ask you something—she thought, turning toward Cerwen.—What would you think if you discovered that there were other people, like us and yet unlike us, who we had known nothing about?—
Cerwen frowned.—There are other villages—
—I don't mean that. I mean people who are more like solitaries, yet able to think and feel, people without our mental powers—
—I do not know what you mean, Daiya. Solitaries must die when they are born—
—Forget that—she thought impatiently.—I mean people who live in another place, who are grown, who are solitaries, but like us also. We believe it is not right to be apart from other minds, so wouldn't it be our duty to communicate with them, try to understand them? Wouldn't we be committing a great sin by cutting ourselves off from them if we knew they existed—
Cerwen fidgeted and she felt his irritation.—What is this outrageous idea? You must be mad to imagine such a thing, this question is more foolish than the ones you asked as a child—
—I am asking what you think you should do in such a case—
Her grandfather's wall came down, pushing against hers.—It is useless to ask such things—he thought faintly. He turned and stalked off toward the village.
Harel was alone with her. She stared across the ditch at the boy. She could no longer tell if she loved him or simply wanted him to love her. She had no right to blame him, knowing what he would see if she allowed him to look at her wishes, her imaginary picture of a Harel who would be curious and inquisitive, willing to join her even if it meant separation from the life of the village. There were four people sitting here in the fields, not two. She wondered how she and Harel had been able to look into each other's minds for so long without seeing what was there.
She reached out carefully with a mental tendril, trying to touch him, not the image she held. He blinked and began to withdraw.—There are other people, like us and yet alien, who do not live on our world. It's true. One of them came to me during the ordeal, that's why I saw that the blackness wasn't really there. I saw that it couldn't touch this boy, that he could not see it—