Six Moon Dance (46 page)

Three long sleeps into the journey, they became aware of a hushing sound, like the roar of their own blood in their ears. This very gradually grew into a soft roaring that grew more thunderous with every passing breath. If they had not guessed what caused it, Questioner would have told them. The sound was quite unmistakable, she said, for she had heard waterfalls on a hundred planets and water always sounded like water. By the time the little boat thrust up onto a sandy shore and tipped them out, unfolding into a flat blade of rubbery flesh that slipped away under the water, the roaring was loud enough to make conversation difficult.

“Now what?” shouted Ornery, who had been content to sleep the time away, curled in the end of the boat, dreaming of far shores and strange sights. Sailors, so she had told Mouche, learned to sleep whenever and wherever they could.

“You cannot dive the falls; for you the stairs,” cried the voice from the darkness. “We have put a light.”

The familiar hugeness swelled out of the water, a shiny dark mound that turned its pale, spherical eye across them then receded toward the falls. Within moments, it was gone, the guides were gone, and they three were alone.

“Light?” suggested Questioner. “Where?”

They found it hidden behind several broken shards of lava tube, the pieces nested like pieces of a giant cup, curved up against the wall, a glowing crystal set within the arch, illuminating the top of the stairs to the left. After taking a few moments for comfort’s sake and redistributing their packs, they stepped past the light and onto the stairs. Flowing Green had not said
endless
stairs, though there was no end in sight.

Questioner lit their way as they variously clomped or danced or leapt downward. Here and there the sidewall opened to admit both the roar of the waters and curtains of flung spray, from each of which they emerged deafened and wet through. Finally came a roaring window near the bottom of the falls, where Questioner leaned through to light a great cauldron of boiling foam leading to a short stretch of glassy river, and then to a lip of stone over which the water poured unbroken into darkness.

They paralleled the level stretch of river, finding more stairs beside the lip of the fall. The next opening was a long way down, far enough down that the roar of the basin was reduced to a soft rushing, and again Questioner leaned out to light the water. The smooth pour shone with greenish reflections, utterly silent. Within the glassy flow moved pallid shadows that twisted and spun within the cataract, moving with the water into some unguessed at basin below.

Mouche made a noise that was almost a moan. “I dreamed this,” he said in a helpless voice. “I dreamed this!”

“Well, Mouche,” said Questioner in a chilly, admonitory voice, “I am sure you believe so. It is all very mystic and dreamlike, and though I can be sensitive to the moods and impressions such places evoke, I try not to give way to them. When dream is most attractive, then is time to be alert and practical, for it is then we are most in danger.” She gave him a keen and penetrating look.

Mouche swallowed painfully. He didn’t want to be practical. Every step in this journey took him either nearer to his dream life or farther from it, into new and treacherous territory, and he could not tell the difference.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“Be assured, I am,” said Questioner. “Let us expedite this climb. You, Mouche, come here upon my left side. I shall extrude two little steps there, see, one at the back, one at the side, one for each foot to stand upon while you lean forward upon my shoulder. And you, Ornery, do the same upon my right, if you will. In that way we may make better time, and certainly in a less fatiguing manner.”

Though doubtful, they did as she ordered, after which a brief clicking and clanking preceded a seemingly effortless, level and continuous descent of the interminable stairs.

“How are you doing this?” asked Ornery, who had always been fascinated by machinery.

“Two-part rotary tread, two outside sections, one wider, central section, operating alternately, first center legs then side legs. The knees are double jointed, of course, and the only trick is to shift my ballast properly.”

“How long can you do it?”

“Several planetary diameters, I should imagine. Do you think we’ll be going that far?”

Ornery fell silent for a time, thinking it remarkable how quiet the mechanism was. There was only the slightest
chickety-click, chickety-click
as the treads placed themselves, only the tiniest hum as Questioner descended, obviously unhampered by the weight of both of them and their packs.

“I can see how that works on stairs, but does it work on irregular slopes?” Ornery asked.

“It adapts itself. I am very well designed.”

They went down the stairs for what seemed half a day with the water, intermittently lit by Questioner’s headlamp, still soundlessly falling at left or right, depending upon the spiral of the stair. Mouche leaned upon her shoulder and slept while Ornery, more or less alert, whispered occasional comments and questions into Questioner’s ear.

“Someone said you were made with mankind brains inside. Is that true?”

“True. Yes. Three of them.”

“Do you know whose they were?”

Questioner surprised herself by answering honestly, “Yes. I was recently given that information.”

“Old people, I suppose.”

“No. Three young women. Very young, one of them, only a girl, M’Tafa, her name was. Of an untouchable caste, on a planet you’ve never heard of and I wish I hadn’t.”

“Why?” begged Ornery, sensing no discomfort and willing to be distracted with a story.

“The untouchables are simply that. They may not let their shadows fall on other people. They may not touch anything the higher castes touch or use. If they do, the thing must be boiled before it can be used again. If the thing cannot be boiled, they kill the untouchable instead.

“The untouchables speak a language of their own in order that the words spoken by the higher castes cannot be sullied on their lips. This child, M’Tafa, was a filth carrier. She sat outside an uppercaste nursery, and whenever the babies soiled a diaper, M’Tafa carried it to the laundry where it would be boiled. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she would touch things, very quickly, and then watch to see if anyone boiled them. They never did, unless they knew M’Tafa had touched them.

“One day a pet animal knocked over a lamp in the nursery, and the baby’s crib was in the way of the fire. M’Tafa could not call anyone, for they did not speak her language. She could not put out the fire, for she had nothing to do it with. She was not supposed to touch the baby. Very quickly, so that no one saw, she moved the baby out of its crib, out of the way of the fire.

“Of course, someone figured out what had happened, for M’Tafa was the only one there. They could not boil the baby, so they killed M’Tafa. She was buried alive for her crime.”

“Oh, horrid,” cried Ornery. “That’s terrible. Does she remember? Is she still … like, alive inside you?”

“She is, yes.”

“Were the other two like that?”

“More or less. Tiu was a young bride, married to an old man who lived only a few days after the wedding. When he died, custom dictated that a faithful wife could offer to die on the pyre with him. Tiu did not wish to die so. She scarcely knew the old man. But, if Tiu did not die on the pyre, she could claim an inheritance, and since the grown children of the old man did not want to divide the inheritance, she was tied to the pyre and burned alive.”

Ornery gulped, beginning to be sorry she had asked. “And the last one?”

“Mathilla. A similar story. A young bride of thirteen or fourteen in a world where women are hidden away. She was sequestered virtually alone in a harem by her old husband who was often away. The grown son of the old husband came to visit. He had a daughter her age, and he took pity on her and taught her to read and gave her books to pass the time. And when the old man found out, he charged her with adultery, though there had been nothing between the little wife and the grown son but pity and gratitude. She was stoned to death, for such is the penalty for adultery. Her own father threw the first stone.”

Ornery breathed deeply. “Do they remember dying?”

Questioner sighed deeply. “I sometimes think it is all they remember.”

Ornery said, “Many of our baby girls die, but not like that. They die when they are born. That’s why all women have to marry and have children, because they are so few. It’s why I pretend to be a man, so I won’t have to.”

She fell silent, thinking about Mathilla and Tiu and M’tafa. She had never considered before that in other places, things could be far worse for women than they were on Newholme.

“Why did they pick brains with so much pain?” she asked.

Questioner hummed for a moment. “The technicians are long dead, so I can’t ask them. I know they wanted brains that were healthy, young, with few memories, so people dying of disease wouldn’t do. I know they had to make some advance preparation, so people dying suddenly in accidents wouldn’t do. They preferred planets which were less advanced, technologically, where fewer questions would be asked. They may even have been motivated by pity, thinking that, in a way, they were saving those three. And then, of course, they didn’t expect that I would ever know enough to bring them into memory.”

Ornery thought about this, lazily, which led her to another thought. “We met those two Earthers you brought with you. Why did you bring those particular ones?”

“They are dancers. I felt we might need dancers.”

“What for? You haven’t needed them, have you?”

“We are not yet finished with our visit though, are we?”

They went on a bit farther, and Questioner said, “Hark?”

Ornery listened for the sound of water, hearing instead the sound of voices. Someone or something was approaching from farther down the stairs.

Questioner unburdened herself, wakening Mouche, who shook himself sleepily, adjusting his pack and brushing wrinkles from his clothing. The voices came nearer. Questioner turned up her light.

They appeared quite suddenly around the turn of the stairs below, half a dozen Timmys, slim and graceful in their flowing membranes, plus a plump and furry bright violet creature a bit larger than they.

“Oh,” cried Mouche in a tone of great pleasure. “There you are!”

The furry creature separated itself from its friends or colleagues and dashed up the stairs to fling itself on Mouche, huge hands holding to his shoulders, back legs braced against his body, both tail and body hair fluffed wide in the pure and glowing color Mouche well remembered.

The being put one hand on Mouche’s lips and said clearly, “Mouche, Mouche.” Then, looking around, “Duster?”

Tears filled Mouche’s eyes, part grief, part delight that his friend had remembered. “Dead,” he said. “Those two boys killed him.”

“Jongau,” said the creature in a tone of anger. “Very bad jongau.” He climbed sadly down, head bowed, then approached Ornery. “You are the sailor. Good! And you are Questioner?”

“Yes,” Questioner agreed with a regal nod. “And you are?”

“He’s my friend,” cried Mouche. “From when I was a boy. But he never talked, not then!”

“True,” said the creature, returning Ornery’s bow. “I did not talk to you then, but I was a friend. Also I am the last of the Corojumi, the last choreographer.”

“Choreographer,” said Questioner, intrigued. “A choreographer?”

“Once one of many, many, many. Now, only one.”

“What happened to the others?” Ornery asked.

“The jongau killed them. And took their skins. And took the skins afar, to some other place, where we could not retrieve them. And so my friends could not come to the Fauxi-dizalonz. They could not be reborn. And now, I am the only Corojum, one alone.”

“What’s a choreographer?” Ornery whispered to Questioner.

“A designer of dances,” Questioner answered. “One who creates the steps and gestures and meanings of dance, though sometimes they copy former choreographers …”

“Which is what we want to do,” cried the Corojum in an agonized voice. “That is what we must do! We must copy the former dance!”

“But you have nothing to copy,” offered Questioner.

“Exactly.”

Mouche opened his mouth, “But …”

“Hush,” said Questioner, raising her hands. “I can feel the questions bubbling up on your lips, but I feel that poised halfway down an interminable stair is not the right time or place. We must have a settled time in which to pursue matters uninterruptedly before we agitate ourselves with hasty questions and half answers.”

The Corojum nodded. “Oh, yes, that is wise. Far better to take time, better even to show than to say. Far better to illustrate than merely explain. Always in the dance, this is so. Come then.” He turned toward the stairs and started down. “It is only a little way now.”

They followed him. His colleagues, the Timmys, had already disappeared, and they did not reappear, even when Questioner’s group emerged at last onto an open and level space. The Corojum ran ahead into darkness, beckoning them. “Come. With less light you will see better.”

Questioner dimmed herself. After a moment, they did see better, and with the seeing came hearing, too, the soft shush of waves on a sloping beach. Before them was the subsurface sea, lighted with a hundred dancing colors and shades, wavelets of luminous peridot and emerald, sapphire and aquamarine, effulgent ripples running toward their feet across a flat beach of black sand to make a citron-colored froth at their toes. Along the beach to their left, a great curved tower went up into the luminous sky, disappearing at the height. Beyond it was another, larger than the largest buildings on Newholme, higher than the tallest, crystalline in structure, reaching upward like a great column.

“I saw these columns being built,” said Questioner. “I saw a record of this world when these pillars were the cores of little volcanoes.”

“True,” offered the Corojum. “First a plain here, then a thousand tiny firemountains, then their cores left behind, then the sea covering the plain with silt, then the plain rising again, then the roof pouring out from other fire-mountains. So Kaorugi told us, Kaorugi, the builder. It was Kaorugi who sent tunnelers to drill the holes to let the rain through to lick away the soft stone, Kaorugi who sent the closers to seal the holes up again before the land sank beneath the surface seas. It was Kaorugi who built the stairs and made the places for water to run deep into the world and out again, Kaorugi who created the first boat to sail this sea, but then, you know about the boats or you would not have brought sailors with you.”