Foreigner (17 page)

Afsan spun around, terrified, and in so doing, his tail swept through a large arc, knocking over a trio of blood-filled eggshells, the dark fluid soaking the sands.

Everywhere he looked there were eggshells filled with blood sticking out of the sand, balanced precariously on their rounded ends. Afsan spun around again, his tail knocking over more of the shells, more blood pouring out.

The beach beneath him was saturated now. As he moved, his toeclaws sucked out of the wet sand, sounding like a dying gasp or like meat sliding down a gullet. Another step, another gasp.

Blood was pouring in from everywhere now. The upended eggshells had become bottomless cups, an endless torrent of red liquid flowing out of them onto the sands, sands that were rapidly turning into a bloody quicksand. Afsan tried to run, tried to get away, but with each step his body sank deeper and deeper into the sodden ground. Soon only his head and neck were above the surface, and then just his head, his long green jaw resting briefly on the sand.

Overhead, a giant wingfinger circled, its vast purple wings swirling about its body.

As he slipped below the surface, his last sight, brought to eye level as he continued to descend, was the broken eggshells, now empty, lying on their sides, scattered across the surface of the bloodied sands.

Afsan was growing progressively more annoyed with Mokleb. “Why don’t you say something?” he snapped.

“What would you like me to say?” said MokJeb her voice calm, reasonable.

“Anything. That you’re happy with my progress. That you’re
unhappy
with my progress. Anything at all.”

“I don’t pass judgments,” said Mokleb gently.

“Oh, yes you do,” Afsan said with a sneer. “You sit there day in and day out, and you judge me. You hear the intimate details of my life, and you judge them. I used to like you, Mokleb but I m getting sick of you. Sick to death.”

Silence.

“No response, Mokleb? Surely that merits a reply.”

“Why is it important that I reply to you?”

Afsan’s tone was quarrelsome. “It’s just good manners that’s all.”

“I see.”

“‘I see,’” said Afsan, mocking. “‘I see.’ God, I’m getting tired of these sessions.”

“I’ve never heard you so angry before, Afsan.” “Yeah? Well, things are changing, Mokleb. I’ve been going easy on you, but from now on, you’re going to hear exactly what I think.”

Mokleb reached for a fresh pot of ink.

Fra’toolar’s sky was leaden. It had been threatening to storm all day, but so far the clouds hadn’t given up their burden. When the sky was overcast like this, the material of the tower looked more gray than blue, the ladders like a column of vertebrae, the backbone of some giant creature that had come and gone before the Quintaglio race was born.

“I’m going to go up the tower,” said Novato. “I’m going to get in one of those lifeboats and ride up.”

Garios’s tail swished. “That could be dangerous,” he said. It’s — you know the old children’s story from Mar’toolar?
Rewdan and the Vine
. It’s just like that. The little boy, Rewdan, gets some magic seeds and plants them in the ground. A vine grows from them, and it keeps growing and growing and growing, up and un into the sky.”

“A child’s story,” said Novato. She waved her hand dismissively.

Garios pressed on. “And do you remember what happens? Rewdan climbs the vine, up into the clouds. And there he’s confronted by the most gigantic blackdeath anyone has ever seen all fangs and rotten-smelling breath.”

Novato clicked her teeth. “He also finds the wingfinger that lays eggs of gold, no? Maybe there is a giant beast up at the top, but if we’re to save our people we need the golden eggs — the knowledge that perhaps is waiting for us up there.”

“I — I worry about you,” said Garios.

“Thank you. But, as you know, we’ve tried putting cages containing lizards in the lifeboats, and they came back safe. Now we need to send somebody up who can come back down and describe what’s at the top.”

“Very well,” said Garios, his close-together eyes seeking out Novato’s. “I will concede territory on the necessity of the trip. But should you be the one to go? You’re very important to the exodus.”

“I am, in fact,
in charge of
the exodus, Garios. And that gives me no choice. I can’t order someone to do something I would not do myself.”

Garios considered. Then: “I want to go with you.” Novato shook her head. “You can’t. No one can. We’d kill each other in there.”

“But maybe with the see-though hull, maybe the territorial instinct wouldn’t kick in. If we kept our backs to each other…”

“I’d still know you were there, Garios. I’d be able to smell your pheromones, just as you could smell mine.”

“But we’ve seen how air is somehow recirculated through the lifeboat — the gentle breeze that comes through the vents in its walls. Maybe our pheromones would be washed away.”

“I doubt it, and even if they were, it’s just too small a space. The round trip takes twenty days, Garios. Oh, the things you mention might let us survive together for a few days, but not for twenty. Long before then just the sound of your breathing would be enough to put me in
dagamant
— and vice versa, of course.”

Garios looked like he was going to make another objection, but apparently thought better of it. “Very well,” he said at last. “But…”

“Yes?” said Novato.

Garios dipped his long muzzle, looking at the ground. “Come back, Novato,” he said. “Be safe, and come back to us.” A pause, then he lifted his muzzle. “To me.”

Novato turned away. “Help me start gathering supplies,” she said.

Afsan is proving to be quite a challenge. His mind is remarkable, but instead of his bad dreams abating as he undertakes the talking cure, he tells me they are getting worse. The dreams he describes are horrifying, full of blood and death, and yet they seem unrelated to each other, with no common theme. The only element that has repeated itself is an image of a wingfinger with purple wings flying above the scene. Offhand, I don’t know of any species of wingfinger that has purple wings, but I’ll research the matter as soon as I get some time.

I got another letter today from Anakod, who is apparently vacationing on Boodskar. He’s pooh-poohing my theories again. Dreams have no meaning, he says, dismissing them as just random activity by a tired mind. Anakod is a fool; he’d seemed so promising as a student, but his rejection of my research shows him to be even blinder than Afsan. I’m sure I’ll be able to interpret Afsan’s dreams, if only I can decipher his symbolism.

On another point, I’ve noticed an interesting effect lately. I’ve seen hints of it before in my dealings with other patients, but here it’s clear-cut: Afsan has been responding to me not as Mokleb, but as he used to respond to, or used to want to respond to, his old teaching master, Saleed. It’s as if he’s transferred his feelings for Saleed onto me.

I’m going to try something different, something I’ve always avoided, in our next session. If his repressed feelings toward Saleed are so strong, I have a hunch that there’s someone else for whom his feelings may be even stronger.

Mokleb found a different rock for herself this time. Instead of straddling a boulder downwind of Afsan, she chose one upwind of him.

“You’ve changed positions,” said Afsan abruptly.

“Think nothing of it,” said Mokleb. “It’s of no importance.”

“I thought everything was important,” said Afsan. More and more lately, he’d been starting their sessions in a snit, no doubt aggravated by his ongoing sleeping difficulties. “Time and again you’ve stressed that every action is significant.”

Mokleb ignored that. “I want to talk today about one of the relationships in your life that we haven’t explored so far.”

Afsan sighed. “Well, there is a fellow up in Chu’toolar who once helped me across a street. We haven’t beaten to death all the ins and outs of that relationship yet.”

“I was thinking of someone closer to home,” said Mokleb patiently. “I was thinking of Novato.”

“What about her?” said Afsan, suspicious.

“Well, she has filled many different roles in your life. It was with her that you worked out the fact that the world was doomed.”

“Yes.”

“And she is the mother of your children.”

“Biologically, the mother. Biologically, my children. Of course, all children are the children of the Pack.”

“Of course,” said Mokleb. “Of course. Tell me about your relationship with Novato.”

“We see each other frequently, perhaps every fifty days or so, when she’s not off working at the ark in Fra’toolar. I cherish the time we spend together.” Afsan lifted his muzzle. “Are there no clouds today? It’s awfully warm.”

“There are some clouds,” said Mokleb. “There are almost always clouds.”

“I suppose.”

“Are there clouds in your relationship with Novato?”

“By the Eggs of Creation, Mokleb, you do have a thing for metaphors.” But Afsan clicked his teeth, as if his ill humor from before was draining away. “But to answer your question, no. There are no clouds in our relationship.” Afsan lowered his voice. “In fact, if you want to know something, I’ll tell you what her last words were to me, before I left her the morning after we had first met. I’d greeted her with the old ’I cast a shadow in your presence.’ She replied — I cherish these words still, Mokleb — ’We cast shadows in each other’s presence, Afsan. And when we’re together, there is light everywhere and no shadows fall at all.’”

“That’s beautiful,” said Mokleb.

“Yes,” said Afsan peacefully. “Yes, it is. And she’s beautiful, too, Mokleb. A delightful person. There’s not much that gives me joy in life, but my relationship with her does. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: when I’m falling asleep, to clear my mind of the troubles of the day, I conjure up a memory of her face, her beautiful face, the way I remember it from the one time I saw it, all those kilodays ago. No image is more calming for me than the face of Novato.”

Mokleb dipped her claw into the inkpot. “She is older than you,” she said.

“By a few kilodays. Irrelevant now, of course; as a percentage of our current ages, the difference is trivial. But back then, when we met in Pack Gelbo, yes, there was something fascinating about a female who was older, who had long since gone through the rites of passage.” A small pause. “And yet, I guess, there’s one rite of passage we went through together.”

“You’re talking about sex,” said Mokleb.

Afsan wasn’t offended. “Yes. It was my first time, and hers, I suspect, too. I mean, she was older than me, but she was still shy of eighteen kilodays — one year — the age at which a female normally first gives signs of receptivity.” Afsan sighed contentedly. “Those pheromones, Mokleb. Those wonderful pheromones. It’s almost as if I can smell them now.”

“No doubt,” said Mokleb, deadpan.

“I really like Novato,” said Afsan. “She’s so intelligent, so pleasant to be with. She makes it seem like, like, oh, I don’t know, like there’s no territoriality. I don’t mean that she comes physically close to me or to others. Nothing like that. But when I’m with her, there’s a relaxing feeling of not being crowded, of not being wary. The territoriality is still there, I’m sure, but it’s in the background. I’m not — say, here’s an observation you’ll like — I’m not consciously aware of it.” Afsan clicked his teeth. “It’s a comfortable relationship.”

Mokleb had an array of noncommittal sounds she made, including grunts, the touching of teeth, the tapping of fingerclaws on stone — anything to show, especially to her blind patient, that she was still listening. This time, she lifted her tail a bit and let it gently bounce against the boulder.

“The relationship between you and me, Mokleb, can be comfortable, too,” Afsan said. “I know it isn’t always, but when things are going well, when we’re talking about our innermost thoughts and there’s no sense of judgment or derision, just gentle acceptance, that reminds me of when I’m with Novato. You came from a good egg, Mokleb.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, I don’t know that much about you, really,” said Afsan. “How old are you?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Say — maybe this is inappropriate, I don’t know — but perhaps someday we should go for a walk or something, just the two of us. Nothing to do with our formal sessions, you understand. Just a chance to get to know each other better.”

“Perhaps,” said Mokleb. For a time, she simply let the wind waft over herself and blow onto Afsan. “Was there ever an occasion when you weren’t comfortable with your relationship with Novato?”

“No, although I was sad after I left her in Pack Gelbo. I thought I’d never see her again.”

“But you did.”

For one moment, the bitter Afsan was back. “No, not really. I’ve been in her presence since then many times, but I’ve never seen her again.”

“Of course,” said Mokleb. “Forgive me. Tell me a bit about your reunion.”

“It was on the
Dasheter
. There had been riots in the Central Square, the land was shaking, the Ch’mar volcanoes were erupting, and I was badly injured. Pal-Cadool saved my life, spiriting me to safety aboard the
Dasheter
.”

“Where you were reunited with Novato.”

“Yes, and discovered that I had eight children by her. There was a bad moment there, actually. I was lying on the deck, exhausted, and the children were crawling on me. It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful, and then, with a start, I realized that seven of them would have to die. It was the most crushing moment of my life, to have met them only to realize that seven of them would be killed by the bloodpriests.”

“But then Novato explained to you that the bloodpriests weren’t going to touch your children, that they’d made a special dispensation because they thought you were The One.”