Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (15 page)

It struggled feebly and then expired. Crocker scrambled down from his rock and raced to his kill. He let out a whoop as he stood shivering with excitement over his handiwork. The spear flew true, its sharp point easily penetrating hide and muscle. His aim had been good, and the animal died quickly.

Good. You have brought down a leaf-eater. Their flesh is tender and warms the stomach.

He bent to retrieve his weapon and noticed a shadow moving toward him along the trail to his left. He whipped the spear around as an enormous black feline sauntered up, its midnight fur glistening in the patchy light, large golden eyes watching him keenly.

Crocker's hands stiffened on his spear.
Do not move,
his inner voice cautioned.
Your spear is useless against a wevicat. Do nothing.

On huge silent paws the beast padded forward, the nostrils of its great muzzle twitching. It gave the man a look of intense curiosity and then yawned mightily, revealing a grooved pink tongue and very sharp, very white triangular teeth lining wide jaws in a double row.

The man gave ground, backing away slowly, keeping the spear ready should the enormous feline charge. The cat blinked unconcernedly at him, yawned again, and nuzzled the fallen beast.

Crocker stood motionless and watched the cat rip into the carcass of the leaf-eater. He rebelled at losing his kill, and though he feared the wevicat, he would not be robbed of the meal he'd worked so hard for. The wevicat glanced up from its work, snorted in his direction as if to dismiss him, and went back to delicately peeling the hide from the haunches of the dead animal.

Rage leapt up in the man as he watched the wevicat nonchalantly stealing his food. Hands shaking, he tightened his grip on the spear and raised it above his head, bringing it down square on the wevicat's big head. Thwack!

The huge black beast spun, ears flattened to its skull, snarling. Crocker stood erect, challenging, the spear leveled at the spitting cat.
His claws scream for your blood, foolish one.
The voice was a terse whisper in his brain.
Your life is his.

Crocker thrust the spear forward into the big cat's face. Quick as a blink the wevicat lifted a paw and swiped the spear aside, but Crocker, still shaking with rage and fear, brought the spear back. The cat's muscles rippled beneath its glistening coat, its golden eyes narrowed to vicious slits.

For a long tense moment the two glared at each other, neither backing down.
The smell of fear fills his nostrils,
said the disembodied voice inside the man's brain.
Flee and you will surely die.
The prospect of the hairless beast challenging him for the prey seemed to perplex the cat. It relaxed and sat back, gazing at the man warily. Here was something new—a creature of obvious weakness that did not run when threatened. The wevicat shook its great black head.

Crocker lowered the spear and tapped its tip on the side of the dead animal's neck where the wevicat had begun to feed. The cat looked from the prey to the man, seemed to consider for a moment, then placed a paw on the side of the dead animal.
He says there is enough meat,
whispered the voice.
The wevicat respects you now. You will not sleep hungry this night.

The cat returned to the kill and began stripping great chunks of meat from the carcass and devouring them whole. Crocker hunkered down to wait and watched the choicest pieces disappear into the wevicat's gaping maw. In time, however, the cat stood, licked its muzzle, yawned, and sauntered off a few paces. It lazily dropped onto its side, stretched out, and went to sleep.

Crocker crept forward and looked at what the cat had left for him: the stringy meat along the ribs and backbone and a portion of the forequarters between the front legs. Crocker took his small knife from his rag pouch and began cutting the meat into strips, chewing the still-warm meat slowly. From time to time, he glanced over at the wevicat to see if it might wake up. But the animal's sides rose and fell rhythmically in deep sleep, so Crocker went on with his meal.

He gorged himself on the sweet flesh, and soon the forest sounds buzzed in his ears and his head felt heavy. Tucking a last morsel into his mouth, Crocker pushed himself away from the decimated carcass, stumbled along the trail, and curled up under a bristle bush.

“An excellent idea!” replied
Gerdes when Yarden told her she'd like to postpone the beginning of her studies so she could go on the trip to see the talking fish. “I will go, too. It has been too long since I last saw them. I'll invite some of my other students, and we can work along the way.”

Yarden was quick to second the idea. “It's the perfect solution, Gerdes. Still, I can't wait to begin.”

“We won't wait,” said Gerdes, smiling. “We will begin as planned. Are you ready?”

“Begin now? Certainly. I'm ready.” Yarden glanced quickly around the bare room in which Gerdes conducted her instruction. “But I don't see any paint or brushes or surfaces.”

Gerdes smiled. “Nor will you for a very long time. Painting does not begin with the paint, but with the
painter!
We must first explore Yarden and find out who she is and what kind of artist she may become. We will begin with movement.”

“Dance movement?”

“You remember what I said, good.” Gerdes nodded approvingly. “Yes, I told you painting and dance had much in common. To paint well, you must move well and understand movement and rhythm. You will learn it by learning to move rhythmically.” Gerdes moved to a near wall where a crystal was mounted on a panel with a row of colored tabs beneath it.

These triangular crystals, Yarden had learned, were employed by the Fieri in various tasks of communication. Evidently the crystals could both transmit and receive vibrations which could be used to carry signals. Exactly how this was accomplished, Yarden did not understand, but she had seen the devices often enough. Mentors like Talus and Mathiax were rarely without one affixed to their clothing.

Gerdes touched a colored tab, and the room filled with music: soft, lilting music, gentle and evocative. “Close your eyes, daughter. Listen for a moment. Concentrate. Let the music seep into you; let it fill you up until you cannot hold it any longer.”

Yarden did as instructed, closing her eyes as she stood in the center of the room. Gerdes' voice became softer, remote. Yarden listened to the music, letting it touch every part of her. She felt it in her fingers and arms and legs first.

“Drink it in as if you were very dry and the sound was cool water for your thirst. Feel it in every muscle, every fiber of your body.” Gerdes went on talking, slowly, softly, speaking in time with the music.

Yarden allowed the music to fill up all the places within her that she could think of—shoulders, neck, stomach, chest, hips, thighs ... everywhere.

“When you cannot contain it any longer, let the music overflow in movement. Make your body a vessel for the music to flow through, and become yourself that motion. Let it carry you as you carry it.”

Yarden hesitated, uncertain how to interpret Gerdes' last instruction.

“Don't think about it, don't try to make too much sense of it. Just do what you feel. Hear the music, let it fill you and overflow in motion. Move with it.”

Feeling awkward and uncertain, Yarden began to move—tentatively, jerkily. She lifted an arm, dropped it. Stepped forward, stopped. She glanced at Gerdes. “Keep your eyes closed. I know it feels clumsy. That's because you're thinking too much. Don't think about it, just do it. Let your body interpret the music, not your brain.”

So, feeling very awkward and not a little self-conscious, Yarden began to move, slowly, haltingly at first. Arms outspread, legs taking hesitant steps, she turned in a tight circle.

“That's right,” said Gerdes. “Feel the music. Translate the sound into motion. Good ... good.” With this encouragement, Yarden began to take bigger steps and move her arms in circles around her body, approximating the circles the melody made as it circled through the song.

“Relax,” soothed Gerdes, “There are no steps to this dance except those you make yourself; so there is nothing to be afraid of. Fear makes you stiff. The music is fluid; you must become fluid, too.”

It was true—Yarden was afraid of looking foolish before her teacher, afraid of making an awkward movement. She slowed her turning steps and concentrated on relaxing her body. Gerdes noticed the difference at once.

“That's better,” she said. “Let go of your fear. See? The tension is leaving your shoulders. Now, let your backbone bend—it is not made of wood, it will become supple if you allow it. The music will show you.”

Yarden stopped. “I can't. It's too—”

“Shh. Don't speak. Don't think. Begin again.” Gerdes came close and put her hands on Yarden's shoulders lightly. “You're trying too hard. Don't fight what is already within you. Your body knows what to do, but your mind intrudes. Relax. Let your body do what it knows. Begin again.”

Yarden closed her eyes once more and began to move, forcing herself not to think about anything. Instead, she willed her consciousness into the music, emptied herself into it, let it cover her and pull her along in its smooth, gently unfolding rhythms. She was surprised to find that her body was already responding. Slowly, but with increasing confidence, she moved, not arms and legs only, but torso and shoulders and hips and neck.

It felt good to move with such freedom. Burrowing deeper into the music, she allowed the music to dictate the motion. For once she had succeeded in silencing that sharply self-critical voice that judged and reported her every action. That was the trick—to divorce the judging self from the feeling self, to remove the bothersome self-awareness altogether so it could not intrude on the pure emotional response, allowing the body to move freely.

“Yes, yes,” said Gerdes with obvious satisfaction. “Much better. You're feeling the music now. Go deeper into it; let it fill all the empty places. Take it in, and transform it into motion.”

Eyes closed, Yarden moved to the music, her motions growing ever more sure. Gerdes brought her along with softly uttered encouragement until she could feel the music deep inside her as it coiled and spun and flowed like rippling water from the well of her soul. She became the music, entering into it completely, merging with it, taking it in and letting it out again as pure, free-form motion.

She did not notice when the song changed and the tempo became faster, but merely felt the rhythm undulate more quickly, demanding more of her willingness to give herself to it. Gerdes' words intoned in her ears, but she did not hear them as much as she felt their presence. In fact, she was aware of nothing but the transmutation of music into motion that was taking place in her body.

When the music finally stopped, dwindling away like a whisper on the wind, Yarden felt her limbs slow and sag and knew the dance was over. She stood motionless for a moment and savored the warmth the exercise had generated. Exhaustion and exultation mingled, producing in her a pleasure close to ecstasy.

She opened her eyes to see Gerdes holding out a cloth to her and watching her with a quizzical expression. Yarden rubbed the soft cloth over her sweating face and neck, not ready yet to break the spell of the moment. Finally she could bear Gerdes' silence no longer; she had to know what her teacher thought of her exercise. “Did I do well?” she asked, somewhat timidly.

Gerdes gazed at her pupil intently. “That is a question you must answer for yourself, daughter. What does your body tell you?”

Yarden shook her head and felt sweat-damp curls slap against the back of her neck. “I scarcely know. I feel... almost dizzy with delight. It's the most wonderful feeling.” At that, her words tumbled out in a rush. “Gerdes, I became the song—I was inside the music. I felt it throughout my body, inside me as I was inside it. I've never experienced anything so strange and wonderful.”

The older woman gave her an appraising look and led her to a grouping of soft-cushioned chairs. They sat, and Yarden leaned back and felt the delicious looseness of a body totally relaxed. Gerdes said nothing, but continued to watch her student with the same thoughtful, questioning expression on her face.

Yarden sensed sympathetically that there was something more than curiosity in her instructor's mind. She sensed something else. Fear? No, not fear, but close. Awe. This puzzled Yarden. She would have pursued the matter using her sympathic abilities—Gerdes would likely be compatible—but refrained. She did not want to know anything her teacher did not choose to say to her directly. Still, she could not help sensing the force of Gerdes' mental and emotional reaction.

The two sat for a long time until Gerdes finally arrived at what she wanted to say. Looking at Yarden directly, she placed her hands together and began, saying, “We are all given gifts freely from the hand of the All-Gracious Giver, who gives to all as He will. In my years I have seen many whose gifts shine bright as sunstone within them—and many of lesser endowment whose best efforts are nevertheless worthy enough to adorn the Preceptor's palace.

“Though I've seen gifts great and small in the most unlikely places, I've never seen any like yours. You, my daughter, are the bearer of a rare and special gift.”

“Are you certain?” asked Yarden. The Fieri woman's words filled her with a mixture of apprehension and delight.

“Perhaps I was wrong about you becoming a dancer,” intoned Gerdes, speaking mostly to herself. “I believe you have the ability and could be trained. But dance, I think, would use only part of the gift. There is something deeper there—I could see it when you forgot yourself and entered into the music. I could see it, but I don't know what it is.”

“I felt it, too,” replied Yarden. “I've felt it before, but never as strongly as I felt it today. I can't describe how it was, but I seem to have stepped outside myself. I was not conscious of what I was doing—each movement flowed through me, dictated from some other, greater source.” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, Gerdes, it felt so good, so free and pure.”