Return to the Whorl

"I've been trying to remember what you were like when we left. You were still very small, however, and I'm afraid I didn't give you as much attention as I should."



"I didn't have a name... I didn't have a name yet. I couldn't talk... I couldn't talk, Patera."



Nor could she talk well now, he reflected. Hammerstone had been forced to construct her vocal apparatus alone, clearly, and the result had left something to be desired.



"Patera..."



He nodded. "You want me to go upstairs with you now, and to sacrifice for you and bless you, as Silk must have."



She nodded.



"For which you have dressed me in these clothes-clothes that I really should not have consented to wear, since I'm not entitled to them-and are fidgeting as we speak." He tried to recall whether he had ever seen a chem fidget before, and decided he had not. "But, Olivine, you're not going to divert me from my purpose. I'm going to the room I mentioned earlier, and you aren't coming with me. If its door is unlocked, I intend to stay there some time. Have you a pressing engagement?"



She was silent, and he was not sure she had understood. He added, "Another place to which you must go? Something else you have to do?"



She shook her head.



"Then you can wait, and you will have to. I-I'll try not to be too long."



She did not reply.



"When I come out, I'll sacrifice for you and give you my blessing, exactly as you wish. Then I would like to tell you about the errands that have brought me here and enlist your help, if you'll provide it." Unable to endure her silent scrutiny any longer, he turned away. "I'll come up to your floor and look for you, I promise."



Night waited outside the narrow window when he rose, dusted the knees of his new black trousers, and glanced around the room for the last time. Blowing out the candle, he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor again. It seemed empty at first, but as soon as he had closed the door behind him, a bit of grayish brown darkness detached itself from the shadows of another doorway and limped toward him. "You had a long wait," he said. "I'm sorry, Olivine."



"It's all right... It's all right, Patera."



Her head and face were swaddled in the sackcloth again; he touched it when she was near enough to touch, stroking her head as he might have stroked the head of any other child. "Do you think yourself so hideous, Olivine? You're not."



"I can't... I can't, Patera. Men-"



"Male chems?"



"Want me to when they see... Men want me to when they see me. So I try to look like one... So I try to look like one of you." The last word was succeeded by a strange, high squeal; after a moment he realized she was laughing.



The fifth-floor door she opened for him was five fingers thick, old and losing its varnish flake by flake but still sturdy. As he followed her into the darkness beyond it, he reflected that the room she called hers had surely been a storeroom originally. She snapped her fingers to kindle the bleared green light on its ceiling, and he saw that it still was. Boxes and barrels stood in its corners and against its walls, and metal bars, drills and files, spools of wire, and bits of cannibalized machinery littered the floor. He said, "This is where your father finished making you."



"Where we work on... Where we work on me." She had taken a pale figurine, a half bottle of wine, and a clean white cloth from some crevice among the boxes; unfolding the cloth disclosed the small loaf she had taken from the kitchen. She spread the cloth on the floor and arranged the other items on it.



He said, "You'll have to tell me how Silk sacrifices these things for you. We don't have a fire."



"The wine is the blood... The wine is the blood, Patera. The bread is the... The bread is the meat."



He began to protest, but thought better of it and traced the sign of addition over them, then looked up to see that Olivine was holding a book. "Is that the Chrasmologic Writings?"



"I keep it here... For you."



To his own surprise, he discovered that he was smiling. "I pointed out that we have no fire, Olivine. With equal or greater relevance, I might have said that we have no Sacred Window. But we can consult gods anyway, thanks to you, and perhaps they'll be in that book for us, as they are sometimes. Afterwards, I'll talk to you a little, if I may; then I'll sacrifice as you wish. Is that all right?"



She nodded, kneeling.



The Writings were small and shabby-the sort of copy, he thought, that a student might use in the schola. He opened them at random.



" `There, where a fountain's gurgling waters play, they rush to land, and end in feast the day: they feed; then quaff; and now (their hunger fled) sigh for their friends and mourn the dead; nor cease their tears till each in slumber shares a sweet forgetfulness of human cares. Now far the night advances her gloomy reign, and setting stars roll down the azure plain: At the voice of Pas wild whirlwinds rise, and clouds and double darkness veil the skies.' "



It was customary to observe a few seconds of silence when a pas sage from the Writings had been read; it seemed a blessing now, although it could hardly be called silent, so beset was it with swirling thoughts.



"What does that mean, Patera...?"



"I can't possibly tell you everything it means. The meanings of every passage in the Writings are infinite." (It was a stock reply.) "As for what it means to us here tonight-well, I'll try. It begins by telling us plainly that it concerns our immediate situation. `Where a fountain's waters play,' must refer to my bath, for which I thank you again. `There' presumably designates this palace, since I bathed here. `They rush to land' refers to your impatience, when you wished me to end my bath and come up here with you."



"The gods are mad at... The gods are mad at me?"



"At you?" He shook his head. "I doubt it very much. I would say that they are offering a gentle and somewhat humorous correction, as a parent corrects a beloved child." He paused to collect his thoughts, glancing down at the book. "Next is, `And end in feast the day.' You want me to sacrifice this bread and wine, and the day has indeed ended, which assures us that our sacrifice is what is meant. `Feast' is probably ironic. We have no animal to offer-no real meat. We should eat a little of the bread, of course, so that it will be a shared meal. Or at least I should. And-"



"Drink some wine... Drink some wine, too," she suggested. "You always do... You always do that."



"Silk does? I'm not Silk, as I've explained several times. My name is Patera Horn-or rather just Horn, though I feel like an augur in these clothes. Now, where were we?"



"About you drinking the wine... About you drinking the wine, Patera."



He was tempted to insist she call him Horn, but this was not the moment for it. He nodded instead. "You say Silk does, and that accounts for the word quaff in the next section, `They feed; then quaff; and now (their hunger fled) sigh for their friends and mourn the dead.' With this it would appear that the god who speaks to us has moved from our present situation to prophesy. I will sacrifice for you, the god says, and satisfy my hunger with your bread and wine. After that, we will mourn dead friends. At present I have no idea who these friends are, but no doubt it will be made clear to us when the time comes. Have you friends who are no longer with us, Olivine?"



"I don't think... I don't think so."



"My adopted son, Krait, is dead. He may be meant. Or someone like my late friend Scleroderma. We'll see."



He looked at the book again. " `Nor cease their tears till each in slumber shares a sweet forgetfulness of human cares.' We will sleep then-so it appears. I know that you chems sleep at times, Olivine. Are you going to sleep tonight?"



"If you say... If you say to."



"Not I, but the gods. You should at least consider it. I will sleep, surely, if I can."



"My father told me to sleep while he was... My father told me to sleep while he was gone."



"But you didn't?"



"Over... Over there." She pointed to the window. "Where I could see... Where I could see out?"



"I didn't know you could sleep standing up."



"If I can... If I can lean. But I saw... But I saw you."



"In the street below. You have good eyes."



"I can't shut... I can't shut them." There were tears in the thick voice. "The... The rest?"



"You're right. It's my duty to explain it, not to gossip about sleeping habits." He looked down at the Writings once more, re-read the passage and closed the book. "This is by no means easy. Presumably it reflects the gods' concern for us. `Now far the night advances her gloomy reign, and setting stars roll down the azure plain: At the voice of Pas wild whirlwinds rise, and clouds and double darkness veil the skies.' "



"Stars... Stars, Patera?"



"Tiny lights in the night sky," he explained absently. "We have them on Blue. You have them here, too, in a sense; but you cannot see them because they're outside the whorl. This is a difficult passage, Olivine. Why this mention of stars, when our sacrifice is taking place in the Long Sun Whorl?"



She stared at him, and although he could not discern her expression he could feel her expectancy.



"I believe it is what is called a signature; that is, a sign by which the god who has favored us identifies himself. Most frequently, signatures take the form of an animal-a vulture for Hierax, for example, or a deer for Thelxiepeia."



"There weren't... There weren't any..."



"No, there weren't. No animal of any sort was mentioned."



He fell silent for almost half a minute, struggling with his conscience. "In honesty I must tell you that a real augur would say this passage was inspired by Pas. We have his image, to begin with; and when a god is mentioned by name, he or she is assumed to have inspired the passage. That's not invariably correct, however, and I don't believe it is in this case. The stars, which at first seem so out of place, are outside this whorl as I told you. As objects found outside it-and only outside it-they may well be signatures of the Outsider, as I feel quite sure they were in a dream I had long ago." He waited for her to protest, but she did not.



"There were horses in my dream, and horses are said to be signatures of Scylla's; but I've never felt the dream came from her. So let us look at the stars, as my wife and I used to do so often when we were younger." He tried to smile.



" `Setting stars roll down the azure plain.' The azure plain is the sky-the sky by day, as we see it on Blue. Notice that azure itself is a shade of blue."



Olivine nodded.



"Since the stars are setting on Blue, we are warned that the influence of the Outsider will diminish there, though Blue, also, lies outside this whorl."



"Is that... Is that bad?"



"For the people there it is beyond doubt, and I believe I can guess why it's happening. Last night I was told by a godling that no more colonists are to leave for Blue or Green-that enough have gone, and everyone who is still here is to remain."



"I didn't know... I didn't know that."



"Very few people can. I was told to proclaim it, but I have not done so. At least, not yet."



He was silent again, recalling New Viron and Pajarocu. "We have very little respect for any god on Blue, Olivine. Little piety, hence little decency. Wealth is our god-land and cards and gold. What little reverence for the gods we have is found only in the newest colonists, who bring it with them. On Blue they tend to lose it. The Outsider, who is little regarded here, is virtually forgotten there."



"Don't cry... Don't cry, Patera..."



"I used to upbraid myself, Olivine, because I paid him no proper honor. Once a year, perhaps, I tried to make some gesture of regard. Nobody else, not even my own sons-well, never mind." He wiped his face on the wide sleeve of his robe. "Your mother still honors the gods. I must mention that."



"Do you know... Do you know her?"



"Yes, I do. I saw her and spoke with her before I went to Green. I've hesitated to tell you so because-because-"



Olivine reached across the cloth; small, hard fingers sheathed in something that appeared to be flesh closed on his.



"She has gone blind."



The fingers relaxed; the thin metal arm fell to her side.



"She is well otherwise, and I-I feel absolutely certain she would send her love to you, if she knew of your existence. But she is blind now, like my friend Pig. To tell you the truth, I sometimes think that Pig may have been sent to me so that I wouldn't forget your mother."



He waited for some word, some comment.



"You'll say it was the judgment of the gods, I'm sure." He cleared his throat. "The judgment of the gods, for abandoning you, as she did in obedience to the gods. But I love her and can't help pitying her. She gave me one of her eyes-a blind eye, of course. They are both blind. But she gave me one in the hope that I might find working eyes for her when I got here. I've lost it. At least, it isn't in my pocket anymore."



He ceased to speak, and the silence of the Calde's Palace closed around them. There had been someone-a cook-in the kitchen, he told himself. There had been a gardener in the garden outside. Bison was calde now, so he and Maytera Mint, who must have renounced her vows to become his wife, lived in this high and secretive building. Yet it seemed that no one did, that not even the shrouded figure across the cloth from him was truly alive, and that the emptiness that had grasped all Viron had its center here.



"Lost... Lost it?" The thick, soft voice might almost have been that of the wind in a chimney.



He told himself he had to speak, and did. "Yes, I have. It's back on Green, I suppose." He wanted to say, "With my bones," but substituted, "With my ring, and other things."



The shrouded figure might not have heard.



"It wasn't any good, you understand. Not to her or to anyone else. She wanted me to have it so that I would know what one looked like."



"I'm... I'm lucky."

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