Being a Green Mother (40 page)

“I’ll find a pool!” Orb agreed. She expanded, searching for one reasonably close by.

She found it: a deep one used by a wealthy estate, now deserted. The buildings of the estate were battered, but the pool had suffered only the accumulation of debris. Orb fished out what she could, then turned the page back to the mermaid.

“I will carry you there,” she cried. She got her arms around the mermaid’s body and heaved her up. She staggered toward the estate.

What had taken only a moment by magic means was a wearing trek with a physical burden while being buffeted by the wind. Orb had to put the mermaid down and rest frequently, and it required over an hour to traverse the distance. When they finally got there, Orb was so fatigued she fell into the pool herself. Now the roles were reversed, as the mermaid caught her and bore her to the edge, keeping her head above water.

“Oh, it’s good to get back!” the mermaid exclaimed. “Let me fill my gills!” She dived under, expelling the air from her lungs, so that her gills could function.

Orb, satisfied that she was all right, foraged in the main building of the estate for some food, which she brought to the pool. The mermaid grabbed it eagerly. “I’ll check on you every so often,” Orb promised, and turned the page back to Jonah.

“Maybe you should rest,” Jezebel said. “It’s too bad that your meeting with Chronos didn’t work out better; you should save your strength for what may come.”

“Chronos? I haven’t met with Chronos yet,” Orb said.

“But you said—”

Orb glanced at her sharply. “Has there been another vision, a dream-sequence?”

“Demons don’t dream,” Jezebel said. “I remember clearly what you said just half an hour ago—”

“I have just spent at least an hour helping a mermaid reach
a pool. I’m bedraggled and tired now, and am quite sure I haven’t spoken to you about Chronos recently.”

The demoness didn’t answer.

“It’s getting worse,” the guitarist said. “We can feel the rumbling, even through the rock.”

“The winds were gale force and rising in India,” Orb said. “But I’m afraid to sing the Song of Chaos again. How is Lou-Mae?”

“Sleeping,” Jezebel said. “I think Jonah is helping. But you know she’s not going to be happy when she wakes.”

“If only I hadn’t started this!” Orb lamented.

“I think Satan started it. He led you on, knowing how mad you’d be when he told you the truth. He’s collecting souls by the millions now.”

“
Damn
Satan!” Orb swore, hating the logic of the plot.

“They say he works over each new Incarnation,” Jezebel continued. “He taught you that evil Song, didn’t he? He saw you coming, and really—”

Orb, unable to listen, turned the page to Ireland—and regretted it. The water had receded, but the swamp was a tangled mass of roots and mud, with few trees standing. The hamadryad’s water oak was gone.

Orb stood there in the savage wind and cried. She wished passionately that she could undo the damage she had done, but knew she could not. She had to carry through, but knew that she had already failed so grossly as the Incarnation of Nature that she would have to resign the office the moment things stabilized. She couldn’t resign now, because this disaster was not the responsibility of her successor, assuming any successor existed; Orb had to face it herself.

After a time she turned the page to Betsy’s farm.

And blinked. The house was gone.

The wind was so savage here that it was impossible to see more than a hundred feet, but there was no question: the house had been blown away. Orb expanded, questing for the cellar, and found it.

It was empty. In fact, it was simply a gouged-out hole, much larger than the original cellar. It was evident that the storm had spawned a tornado and torn the very stones and timbers out of the ground and scattered them across the landscape. Betsy and the organist and Betsy’s family were gone.

Orb gazed around the horizon. A tornado? By the sound,
there was another coming. She expanded and confirmed it; three of them tearing across the plain, spewing out sand and debris, their terrible tails whipping back and forth as if searching for anything not yet destroyed. Farther out were two more, orbiting each other. Indeed, they were everywhere, growing like monstrous trees. Some were so twisted that they seemed to be rolling like elongated barrels along the ground, their funnels impinging on the territory of neighboring tornadoes. Hell had arrived on earth, here.

She returned to Jonah. “The farm—gone,” she said dully. The individual tragedies were losing their impact; they were only samples of what the whole world was suffering.

Jezebel didn’t comment. What was there she could say?

Orb knew now that it was not going to stop. The flood had been replaced by the storm. If she sang again, what worse could happen?

She fetched her harp and sang the Song of Chaos a third time. But this time she tried a variation, intuitively; she modified it with the error-nullification theme. If straight repetitions didn’t do it, maybe a null repetition would.

Again she felt it taking hold. But even if it stopped all the trouble this instant, too many lives had been sacrificed.

When the song was done, she moved to the surface, apprehensive about the result.

The wind was dying.

But did this mean an end to Chaos, or only the onset of another aspect of it?

Where was Chronos? He was the one who was supposed to be able to help! Why hadn’t he contacted her before this?

Orb turned the page to Purgatory, then sought Chronos’ mansion. She would brace him directly!

A maid met her at the door. “The Incarnation isn’t in,” the woman said.

“I’ll wait,” Orb said, pushing past her. She was beyond the point of politeness.

“It isn’t wise,” the maid protested.

“Just send him a signal, or whatever. Tell him Gaea is here. I won’t leave until I talk with him.”

The maid spread her hands. “No one can reach Chronos when he’s out. He isn’t like other Incarnations.”

Orb picked a comfortable couch in the front room and lay down as for sleep. The maid departed.

To her surprise, Orb did sleep. She woke abruptly when Chronos entered the room. He was a handsome figure in a white cloak. “Ah, Gaea,” he said. “In your lovely stage. Had I known you were coming, I would have been here to greet you.”

“I left a message,” Orb said curtly. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“What message?”

“Hours ago! They said it would reach you!”

Chronos nodded. “Ah, I understand. You are early in your tenure, and do not properly appreciate my nature.”

“The Purgatory computer says that you are the only one who can help me. The world is being demolished by my error, and I have to stop the disaster!”

“Let me explain,” Chronos said. “I exist backwards. The message you left remains in my future, your past. Probably this visit of yours has nullified it, so I have no news of it in my past, your future.”

“Backwards,” Orb repeated. “Yes, of course. I didn’t realize—”

“However I’m sure we shall be reconciled, because we have had a long and beneficial association.”

“That can’t be. I’m going to resign as soon as I can somehow stabilize the Chaos I invoked.”

“Chaos?”

“If you live backwards, you have to know all about it, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. Your future, and therefore my past, is malleable. What you foresee occurring may differ from my experience.”

“But if you have lived through it—”

“I have lived through a single track of it—one of an infinite number available. I try to avoid interfering with my own track, but sometimes it does change. This is of course an uneasy business for me, though I am immune from paradox.”

“Well, I have an uneasy business outside!” Orb retorted. “Are you going to help me or aren’t you?”

“I would be inclined to help you, for the sake of your beauty and the long association we have had. However—”

“For the sake of what?” Orb asked sharply.

Chronos smiled. “I suppose that was not an honest answer.
But I do not believe it would be wise for you to know either the source of my inclination or my reason for denying it.”

“You would do something for an attractive woman that you would not for an unattractive one?” Orb demanded. Her frustration and fatigue were telling, and she knew it, but she hardly cared.

“Well, men do,” he said reasonably. “It depends on the relationship. But your case is special. You have generally met me in your assumed guise of age and maturity; to encounter you now in your beauty is—”

“I suspect that if I understood what you were getting at, I wouldn’t like it,” Orb said. “So much for the source of your inclination; what is your reason for denying it?”

“They are linked. Perhaps you had better simply accept my statement that I do not wish to interfere with the present course of history.”

“Even though life on Earth is being wiped out?”

“Well of course it didn’t—won’t come to that, exactly.”

“Are you being deliberately perverse? I am not making much sense of this.”

Chronos sighed. “I suppose I had better explain. But I must warn you that to prevent this explanation from changing the very matter of which I speak, I shall have to erase this particular line after experiencing it.”

“Erase it?”

“I shall set the time back to this point, and our discussion will not have happened in your reality.”

Orb realized that such was the power of this Incarnation, that he was not bluffing. “No! I forbid that! If you have a legitimate rationale for your action or inaction, and it concerns me, I believe I have a right not only to know it, but to remember it. I want you to tell me exactly what is on your mind, and why you seem to be refusing to help me undo the damage I have done.”

“But you see, Gaea, your knowledge would almost certainly change the matter that I relate! Therefore it would become meaningless, and perhaps much worse.”

Orb stifled a sharp retort. She reminded herself that her impetuous meddling with an aspect of the Llano had gotten her into trouble more than once, this time quite seriously. There could be merit in his caution. “Then tell me, and let
me judge whether it is proper for me to remember. But you must promise to let me decide.”

“I suppose you do have that right,” Chronos said unhappily. “But—would you mind changing to your other form?”

“My other form?”

“The mature one. You—I prefer that you change.”

“I hardly know what you’re talking about. This is the form I have had since maturity; I know of no other.”

“Again, my vantage betrays me. In your future I have known you in the other guise. The reason for my concern will be apparent when I have explained.”

“Then you had better tell me what form you are asking me to assume and how I should do it.”

“I really don’t know how you do it. It is just one of the powers of your office, as it is for Fate.”

“One moment,” Orb said. She turned the page to Fate’s Abode. The young oriental woman was there. “Could I speak to my mother for a moment?” Orb asked.

“I’ll wake her.” There was a pause, then Niobe appeared.

“What is my other form, and how do I achieve it?” Orb asked.

“Why I don’t know, dear; the prior Gaea had many forms, and I’m sure you will, too. I think you just—choose it.”

“But I have no idea how!”

“Perhaps if you imagine a progression in your appearance similar to mine,” Niobe said. “In my youth I looked like this.” She changed to a young and startlingly beautiful woman.

“Oh, mother, I had almost forgotten!” Orb exclaimed. “You were such a creature!”

“But I didn’t take care of myself,” Niobe said, reverting to her middle-aged spread. “I suspect something similar would have happened to you in time, if you had not assumed your office. If you will just imagine it—”

Orb concentrated, trying to picture herself when she became her mother’s age.

“Yes, that’s it,” Niobe said.

“You mean I changed?”

“Come to the mirror, dear.” She led Orb to a full-length mirror.

Orb was astonished. She was now a solid, middle-aged
woman, perhaps twice her normal mass, her hair starting to gray. “Oh, ugh!” she exclaimed.

“No, it is very good,” Niobe said. “You look very much the part of Mother Nature now.” She contemplated Orb critically. “Except for the green hair.”

“My hair is not green!”

“Precisely. The Green Mother traditionally has a green tinge about her.”

Orb concentrated. “Like this?” Now her hair showed greenish in the mirror.

“Yes, dear. That is very nice.”

Orb realized that she must have chosen—in Chronos’ futuristic past—this form for much of her official activity. “I suppose it will have to do. Thank you, mother.”

“Do be careful, dear.”

“It’s late for that!” Orb turned the page back to Chronos’ domicile.

“Yes, much better,” Chronos said. “You are your familiar self.”

Orb was not completely pleased, but elected to pass over the matter. “Now tell me everything I need to know.”

“It began about fifteen years hence, in your framework,” he said. “Perhaps a few more. I was—well, I met a ghost.”

“A ghost! There are millions of them being made right now!”

Chronos shrugged. “This ghost had an unusual proposition. He wanted me to impregnate his wife. This was a thing he could not do himself, of course.”

Orb realized that this was a highly unusual story. She resolved not to interrupt until it was complete.

“I met his wife and fell in love with her. I could not marry her, of course, but I lived with her like a husband, and she bore my child, though it was legally the child of the ghost. Unfortunately, the baby had a malady and died, and she committed suicide because of her grief. She was the perfect woman and the perfect mother and she felt she had no life without her baby.”

How well Orb could understand that! If only she had been able to keep her own baby!

“That left my own life meaningless. With the ghost’s help, I assumed the office of Chronos and have held it until this time. As you can appreciate, I would not have come to this
had I not met the woman, and had she not died. I think I would give it all up, to live out my life with her, but I can not, and I believe I am a competent officeholder and that my input is beneficial. This is the past that I feel I should not change, the future that you will come to know.”