Polystom (3 page)

‘Distressing,’ murmured Polystom senior, sipping his tea.

‘Very,’ said Cleonicles, with a sharp nod that made his beard waggle. ‘But partly, my young bear-cub, I left because I found something
more
exciting.’

‘Stars?’ said young Polystom, unable (though he knew it was poor manners) to keep disdain out of his voice. At thirteen Polystom had never seen stars, and accordingly his imagination had no purchase on the idea of them.

‘Certainly stars,’ said his uncle, with pronounced though not unfriendly emphasis. ‘After tea I can show you some photo-lithos that I’ve recently taken out near the upper-limit of the System.’

But Polystom was unconvinced. When tea was finished he trudged into the house after his uncle and duly gazed at some filmy pictures of what seemed to him very little indeed: black squares, each one an image, nine to a sheet; some pure black, like press-sheets at a printing house; most black but scattered with a dozen, or two dozen, white dots and smudges. What was so exciting about that? It looked spotty and miniature to Stom. Even his uncle’s enthusiasm for
enormous globes of fire, burning in nothingness
failed to rouse his imagination. The whole business was just too fanciful.

So, now, seven years later, Polystom the adult, Polystom the seventh Steward of Enting, climbed out of his biplane
and jogged over the lawn towards his uncle. Things had changed, of course. Old Cleonicles had been wearied and a little broken by the death of his brother, and his brother’s partner. The war on the Mudworld had erupted into extraordinary violence. For long stretches of fighting as many as a hundred people, including two or three people from important Families, were dying every day. Cleonicles wrote dignified but furious letters to the newsbooks about the conflict, a war he viewed as a ghastly error of judgment by the Political Military. He had the grace not to force his views on his nephew, a discretion that greatly pleased the more warlike boy. But when a scientist of the stature of Cleonicles spoke, many people listened.
Blockade would be easier, less destructive and infinitely more humane than the senseless war being waged now. I urge all families of note to petition the Political Military, with a view to calling a panel to review strategy. Lives are being lost every day!

‘Helloë, uncle!’ Polystom called.

‘My dear boy,’ returned Cleonicles, a little breathlessly. ‘My dear boy!’

They embraced. ‘A good crossing?’ the old man asked, ushering Stom to a chair.

‘Uneventful. Passed a balloon-boat; splendid thing. I saw a skywhal, too, in what looked like a close swing about this moon of yours.’

‘I think I saw him myself, dear boy,’ said Cleonicles, gesturing with his left hand at a five-foot-long telescopic tube erected on the patio. ‘Very young one. Sometimes,’ he added, as if unable to resist the urge to lecture, ‘sometimes the things beach themselves on moons, you know, and I wondered if that was why he came in so close. But it’s always mature fellows who beach themselves, and this one was clearly immature. Lost his way a little, I expect.’

A servant appeared, bringing a tray. On it was an exquisite blue glass samovar filled with coffee. Next to this was a bottle of black wine.

‘Still
star
-gazing, uncle, eh?’ said Polystom, throwing one leg over the arm of his chair, and tossing his flying helmet and gloves onto the grass beside him, in a rather self-conscious attempt to play-act
carelessness
. Maps and charts were spread on the table in front of the old man.

‘Yes, dear boy,’ said Cleonicles.

‘I’ve been thinking about your passion for these
stars
,’ Stom said brightly, putting just a hint of impertinent emphasis on the final word. ‘Don’t you think that they don’t make sense? According to some of the books I’ve been reading, there are theories that they don’t exist at all. I’ll tell you: I was talking to my Head Grass-Gardner, you know, about seeding a new lawn. And in amongst other things he told me that
he
doesn’t believe in them, and he’s an excellent fellow. At Grass-Gardening, anyhow.’

‘If you can’t see them they don’t exist, eh?’ chuckled Cleonicles. ‘A veritably Grass-Gardneresque philosophy, that. If you can’t run the seeds through your fingers, or feel the pressure of roller on lawn, then it’s just a dream, eh? No,
coffee
for me, man.
Wine
for my nephew,’ this last, in more severe tones, addressed to the servant who was about to pour a glass of wine for Cleonicles.

‘But stars – you say that these things burn? In
vacuum?
’

‘I am impressed,’ said Cleonicles, smiling. ‘You’re keeping up with at least some of the latest science writing, if you know that word.’

‘I’ll admit,’ said Polystom, grinning, ‘that I dropped the word in for effect. But burning means eating air – don’t it? How does a thing burn in a vacuum? It really makes no sense.’

‘There’s certainly vacuum at the limits of our system, you know,’ said Cleonicles. ‘That, at least, has been scientifically proven. Now, I agree with you, there are conflicting stories as to what the “stars’’ are – how far away they are, whether they are real phenomena or somehow fragmentary reflections of something else, whether they embody genuine fire
or some pseudo-electrical phenomena. But you must concede me vacuum, at least.’

‘What I read,’ said Polystom, ‘is that when scientists make up vacuum in a chamber in some laboratory, the effort is enormous; and that vacuum they make is the delicatest bloom of all the delicate blooms – the
least
thing destroys it. Now how can such a fragile and fundamentally unnatural thing as this vacuum surround our system? Wouldn’t mere contact with the ether collapse it?’

‘This is a surprisingly good point, my boy,’ said Cleonicles, sipping his coffee. ‘I say
surprisingly
only because you’ve always devoted your energies to poetry and suchlike, so I’m surprised by the acuteness of your observation. But evidently you have the makings of a scientific mind too. It’s a good point, and difficult to answer. Well, all we have are theories. Clearly you’re right about the inherent instability of “vacuum’’ – all of nature detests a vacuum, you know. If we imagine a space the size of our system filled only with vacuum, you see, then it’s clear – the maths confirms this – that any objects
at all
within this space would be vaporised and dissipated throughout the space, to produce – well, to produce what we see around us, the natural order of things, a more-or-less level pressure gradient, uniform ether. It is
in
conceivable that matter in gaseous, liquid or even solid state could survive the savage differences of pressure that “vacuum’’ physics implies.’

‘And yet you say,’ drawled Polystom, drinking his wine in great gulps, ‘that outside the sphere of our system . . .’

‘I know, I know. You sound like one of my scientific colleagues, dismissing my research! Well,’ said Cleonicles. ‘Well. One theory is that some form of force-field surrounds our System, to preserve the integrity of the vacuum beyond it. This is hypothetical, and goes beyond Science (if by science – I say, by
Science
, you mean experimental data and observation), but it has certain strengths, as a theory. And if “stars’’ are, as I think they are, bodies in the vacuum,
burning and emitting light, then some similar force-field must exist to preserve their unity.’

But after his initial enthusiasm, Polystom was growing bored of discussing metaphysics with his uncle. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you scientists will figure it out.’ He stopped.

Now Cleonicles was silent, smiling slightly. Another thing that Polystom loved about his uncle was his sensitivity. His enormous tact. It was more than good breeding; it was a positive virtue in the old man. Cleonicles knew that Stom would not fly all the way from Enting to the moon merely to talk about physics. Something else must be bothering the young man. But the way to approach this was not to badger Stom, not to rain questions upon him, but rather to allow him the time to tell his own story, to unburden his heart.

‘Do you know what?’ said Polystom after a while, looking past his uncle at the mud-green stretches of the lake, and blushing slightly. ‘I’ll tell you: trouble sleeping. It’s the oddest thing. Trouble sleeping.’

There was a pause. ‘Go on, my boy,’ prompted Cleonicles.

‘That’s all there is to it, really. That’s all. Just that. I can drift off to sleep, in front of the fire, with a bottle at my elbow, very pleasant I’m sure. But I always wake up a couple of hours later, and then I can hardly ever get back to sleep after waking again.’

Cleonicles nodded; waited.

‘Makes me muggy in the head. Tired all the time.’ Polystom’s blushing had taken on a deeper hue, now; but still he couldn’t meet his uncle’s eyes.

‘Is there any particular reason for waking up?’ Cleonicles suggested, gently.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ Cleonicles spread his old hands on the table before him, the skin of them thin and sagged, marked with brown ecchymotic spots like a negative photo
litho of one of his own star-maps. ‘There might be various things.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Polystom after a pause, still not looking at his uncle, ‘things like . . . nightmares?’

‘For instance,’ his uncle agreed.

‘Yes,’ said Stom. He breathed in, but the breath caught in his throat and started throbbing out again in gasps. Alarmed, he realised that he was crying. Tears were leaking down his face.

‘My dear boy,’ said Cleonicles, with infinite compassion. ‘My dear boy.’

He reached his hand over the table, and Polystom dropped his own hand on top of it. Just that human contact. The tears still came, languidly, wetting his cheeks and his lips. Polystom sobbed. Soon enough, the crying softened, and died away. Away in the lake behind him, the four-legged stork-boars took their gloopy steps through the shallow waters. Only that noise, and the rustle of the breeze.

‘You miss her, I think,’ said Cleonicles.

Polystom wiped his face on a napkin, and dropped it to the lawn with a snort. ‘I’m ashamed of myself uncle.’

‘Oh we shouldn’t be ashamed of our feelings,’ said Cleonicles. ‘Not when we are amongst our loved ones. It’s not as if we’re entertaining guests!’

‘Still, uncle, I hate to cry.’

‘You miss her,’ Cleonicles repeated, more matter-of-factly. ‘There’s nothing shameful in that fact, nothing hate-able. Of course you miss her.’

‘To think,’ said Polystom, almost laughing at himself now. ‘That she is still keeping me awake after all this time.’ ‘She’ was his former wife, the only wife he had ever had. She had been called Beeswing, although her name had been Dianeira.

They had married less than a year after the death of Polystom’s two fathers. Too sudden a wedding, some people said. Stom’s father had died of one of the illnesses that claim old men, and Stom’s co-father had followed him into the ground within a month, despite seeming stronger and healthier than his partner. Polystom had grieved, but not alone. Naturally, at moments such as this, the family gathered round him. Two of his aunts, one of them his father’s sister, and a dozen cousins ranging in age from eighty to twelve, came to the estate and stayed with him. Cleonicles himself, Polystom’s favourite uncle, came down from the moon for a weekend; although he had important science to perform (he claimed) and didn’t stay. All in all, Stom was glad of the company.

Aunt Elena, his father’s sister, had been particularly wise in the ways of mourning, having lost her own love-husband several years before, and having watched a favourite cousin go down to the Mudworld to fight and not return. She had counselled Polystom not to attempt to restrain his grief for the first week, but thereafter to attempt a more manly self-control. Polystom had wept and wailed on his aunt’s shoulder for the allotted seven days, and on the eighth had found it surprisingly easy to control himself. By the end of the month his co-father was dead as well, and Polystom wept again, although the fount of his tears was not as copious the second time. After that his family endeavoured to keep him occupied to the point where absorption in his grief did not stagnate into something unhealthy, but not so much that he was unable to work through the natural grieving process. They swam and fished despite the chill of the Middenstead in Winter Year; they played catch-hoop
and netgame on the lawn. Polystom spent time with each of his cousins, getting to know them a little better.

After six months, Aunt Elena began talking of the need for companionship. Firstly, she inquired, gingerly, after Polystom’s preferences. It was awkward, she admitted – given her nephew’s relatively advanced years – that she needed elucidation upon this point: ‘of course I ought to know, dear boy, but somehow I’ve remained in ignorance of the direction in which your passions flow.’

‘Women,’ said Polystom. ‘As it happens, girls.’ Then Aunt Elena began, delicately, discussing possibilities for companionship. Perhaps even marriage, eventually. With his father’s death he had inherited a splendid estate. There was no denying it – it was a large estate, she said. Large, Polystom repeated gloomily, looking through the reception-room window at the dusk-darkening forests, void now of his father’s presence. Large and beautiful, of course, Aunt Elena had added diplomatically. A jewel in the crown of the System. But if Stommi (she used the childhood abbreviation) could find a heart’s-ally, somebody with whom to share the burdens of stewardship . . . Polystom nodded. He had thought this himself, of course. Perhaps now he was ready for a wife. Perhaps that would mark his ascent into full manhood: inheriting the estate, carrying life onwards, becoming Steward, and marrying.

‘Come to a party, then,’ said Aunt Elena. ‘I’ll organise it, in my home. A fortnight today. You can fly over, and I’ll introduce you to some interesting people.’

So Polystom had taken his favourite plane, the single-seater
Pterodactyl
, and flown over the Middenstead and down the spine of mountains to his aunt’s elegant house, in the middle of beautiful olive-crop country. It was entirely right that the family be organising his bride for him. His sadness, still sharp, felt swathed about as with a bandage by the love of those close to him.