Six Moon Dance (58 page)

Mouche came trudging back into the circle of light. “About four hundred eighty meters, Questioner. Maybe a little longer. It’s a long, tapering body. The surface is much rougher down at that end, and it was hard to keep my footing. She has a kind of tail or stinger down there that seems to pain her and it quivers.” He turned to stare into the faceted eyes, trying to penetrate their mystery. Something in this utterly strange place was familiar to him. Something was happening here that he had experienced before.

“A tiny body for all that wingspan,” murmured Questioner. “This pit is at least five kilometers deep, the wings are folded in half, with both of them opened out it would have a twenty-kilometer wingspan….”

Corojum remarked, “She is bigger than when she fell. She told Kaorugi she could grow bigger yet, but the mate doesn’t want them to grow bigger. That’s why they do as they do. They do not have to ruin the wings; they do it because they want to.”

“The rapist mentality,” remarked Questioner. “Seems always present. Tell, me, Corojum, when is the six-moon conjunction, exactly?”

Corojum stared at the sky. “Now, on other side of Dosha, four moons are almost aligned, they will draw apart, then tomorrow they draw together again with two more. By noon they will be joined in line with the sun. They will stay in line only a short time, but oceans will rise, egg will be shaken more than ever, Quaggima will wake, all will be over.”

“That soon?” breathed Mouche.

Questioner said, “If we had a few days, I can think of several solutions to this fix we’re in. There are probably drugs that would keep Quaggima asleep. Certainly we could lift her out into space, given a little time, and also we can lift the eggs, though it would take the cooperation of Kaorugi and the tunnelers to cut them loose from below. But one day simply isn’t long enough, even if I could reach the ship, which I can’t!”

She seemed furious at this, and Mouche said sympathetically. “I’m sure they’ll fix whatever went wrong on the ship, Questioner.”

“And I am as sure they won’t,” she snapped. “Not unless they let the Gablians do it.”

Corojum puffed out his fur and sighed.

“I must think,” said Questioner. “I must go up above and spend a little time in total concentration.”

Mouche was crouched beneath the great faceted eyes of Quaggima, intent upon Questioner’s IDIOT SAVANT.

“Mouche,” Questioner said impatiently, “let’s go.”

“Give me a moment,” he begged. “Can you leave me this SAVANT thing, Questioner? It almost seems to make sense….”

“We’ll wait with him,” called Ellin, stopping her whirling motion and drawing Bao with her to Mouche’s side.

“Stay if you like,” Questioner murmured. “Come when you’re ready. Corojum, let us go up.”

The Eiger took them up, away, Questioner and Corojum, leaving the four young people crouched before the Quaggima, intent on the glow of the screens and the dance of glittering motes within it. Beside them stood four Eigers, each with its multiple eyes fixed on one of them, ready to carry.

The wing beats of the Eiger bearing the Questioner faded upward in the chasm. Mouche exclaimed.

“What is it?” breathed Ellin. “What are you thinking, Mouche?”

He drew breath between his teeth. “It should make sense. I have this feeling that I know what’s going on. The movements they described, the music they used … Did either of you get a better description of the music than I did?”

Ellin and Bao handed over their own data heads. Mouche linked the three together and fed this new information into the larger device, directing it to extrapolate.

It did so, building and refining, variation after variation. Long sliding sequences. Slow advances and retreats. Turns, twists, then long sliding sequences again. And again.

“It reminds me of something,” said Bao. “I just can’t tell what.”

Mouche stood up, taking a deep breath. “It reminds me of something, too,” he said. “It’s just … it shouldn’t make sense. I mean, it doesn’t make sense.”

They watched the stage go on with its improvisations, heard the drumming settle into a definite rhythm. Mouche and Bao stared at one another in dawning realization. Ellin and Ornery looked at one another in confusion.

“It shouldn’t make sense. But it does,” said Mouche. “Oh, yes, it does. No wonder I thought I knew…. The feeling. The yearning…. I wish I could ask someone….”

“There is someone….” said a small voice.

They turned toward a shiver of silver, a flare of green.

“Flowing Green,” said Mouche, unable to breathe. “Where … where have you been?”

The silver eyes tilted. “Waiting for you, Mouchidi. Waiting for a little quiet. Oh, so much noise and confusion! So many persons. So many jongau! And poor Mouchidi, wounded so.” She moved toward them, lilting. “Now is a little peaceful time, so listen to my words! I dreamed you would come here. I dreamed we would go to the Fauxi-dizalonz together. I dreamed the world would continue. They all think you will be of no help. They all think I am strange, not well made, to think such things, but Bofusdiaga made me for you, Mouchidi. Bofusdiaga made you for me, too, a little.”

“Made you?” whispered Mouche.

“Made me from some of your own self and some of Bofusdiaga’s own self. Made you a little bit like me. I knew to come here, to tell you of the dancers.”

“You know what the dancers were doing here?”

“I know what you mankinds call it.”

“What do we call it?” cried Ellin.

“You call it making love,” said Flowing Green.

H
igh above the chasm, Ashes and his sons arrived at the end of the straight road and moved out onto the ledge that looked down to the Fauxi-dizalonz. Behind and around them were the remains of the settlers from Thor, the jongau, the bent ones. Emerging from bubble caves here and there around the circumference of the caldera, others edged out, softly gleaming in the pallid moonlight, casting dark shadows behind them. Some of those farthest down struck the stone with whatever parts of themselves were available—heads, toes, tentacles—and these blows resolved into a cadenced drumming upon the walls. Those high on the ledge stepped in time with the cadence, turning with lumbering precision to move downward on the long, gentle road that switched back and forth as it descended into the caldera, at first only a few, then more and more as each new monster reached the ledge and marched across it, over the lip and down.

Here were Crawly and his cousins, four beats to a flail, twelve beats to a drag, flail-two-three-four—drag-two-three-four—down-six-seven-eight—below-ten-eleven-twelve. Here was Strike, four beats to a foot step,
rye-ut ut ut, lay-uft uft uft, rye-ut ut ut, lay-uft uft uft
. Here was Belly, dragged behind the Shoveler and Gobblemaw, like a harrow behind a team of oxen, four bars to the belch;
hup plod plod plod, hup plod plod plod, hup plod plod plod, squawwweeough
.

“Old Pete,” murmured Ashes, who was marching along quite erect, arms swinging at his sides. “He’s a little way down yet. Crawly’ll drag him out.”

“What do we do when we get to the bottom?” Bane asked.

“Gonna roll ‘em oh-ver,” said Ashes. “Hup hup hup roll ‘em, hup hup hup over.”

Hughy Huge came down like a gingerly cannon ball, Ear clinging to one side, Tongue to the other,
blather, rumble, blather, rumble
. Foot hopped,
bingety spop, bingety spop
, and Mosslegs swished,
slooush, slooush
, all in time, all in perfect time.

“You learn to march like this on Thor?” Bane asked.

“Drill-two-three-four, this is what a drill’s for,” said Ashes, keeping time.

Boneless oozed over the lip of the ledge, splooshing in cadence. Bone clattered behind him,
brack-bruck brackbruck
.

“There’s old Craw-lee. He tooka short cut,” chanted Ashes.

There was Crawly indeed, flopped on the roadway outside a cave, flailing his claws into the pale flesh that blocked it, heave-two-three-four, heave-two-three-four.

“Pete, he’s coming out, huh,” breathed Ashes, still keeping time. “Pete he’s coming out, huh!”

Pete had come out, or his body had, though his appendage was still emerging, foot by foot, a gigantic sausage, a titanic pizzle, white as alabaster, smooth as marble, throbbing with discontent. Crawly turned and clasped Pete’s figure with his hind legs, dragging Pete along behind while Crawly himself proceeded down the road, flail-two-three-four, heave-two-three-four.

The moon had risen high enough to show all this nightmare vision to Madame, the two Hags, the two Men of Business, and to Questioner, who arrived just as the last of Pete popped out of his cave and came thumping down the road in Crawly’s wake. Corojum summoned several Joggiwagga and a great number of tunnelers and leggers who assembled themselves into levees that reached from the foot of the road to the Fauxi-dizalonz.

“Can the pond hold them all?” whispered Madame. “And what in heaven’s name are they?”

“Creatures by that Old Earth artist, Hieronymus Bosch,” murmured D’Jevier. “ ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’!”

“More likely Kaorugi’s joke,” said Onsofruct. “Surely Bosch never meant his paintings to be taken literally.”

“She’s right, though,” said Calvy, unexpectedly. “I’ve seen them in a book, and that’s what they look like.”

Madame asked once again, “Will the pond hold them all? And what will they be when they come out?”

“And why have they all come at once?” demanded Calvy. “Is this an invasion?”

“They came,” said the Corojum, “because they have to. They aren’t as stable as finished persons. When Bofusdiaga makes someone, he builds in the call. When it starts to come apart, it has to come back and get fixed. Bofusdiaga does not like losing material.”

“Penis-man,” murmured Simon, in awe. “Look at that thing!”

“I’d prefer not,” said Onsofruct frostily. “Quite indecent. And what is that flaccid sack? A stomach?”

“Belly boy,” said Calvy. “I don’t think the pond can hold them all.”

“It will,” said Corojum. “A little at a time. Though it will overflow when they liquefy, and we will need to move up to higher ground.” He moved off toward the steeper trail, and the others trailed along behind him. When they had gone up thirty meters or so, they stopped on a conveniently spacious ledge and merely watched.

“There’s Thor Ashburn,” said Madame, from Questioner’s side. “And the boys, Bane and Dyre. What will become of them?”

“We’ll make the young ones go through twice,” murmured Corojum. “Even if they fight us. We want no more jongau.”

“Look,” cried D’Jevier. “An Eiger, coming out of the chasm!”

“It’s carrying Bao,” said Madame.

The Eiger circled for a time, as though uncertain where to put its burden. Then Bao saw the group on the ledge, called out, and the great bird turned, swooped, and dropped Bao gently at their feet.

“Questioner,” said Bao breathlessly. “Oh, Questioner….”

“Look,” she said. “Look at the monsters.”

“No time for monsters,” he said. “Questioner, you must listen.”

“What is it?” asked Madame, turning toward him. “Have you come up with something.”

Bao flushed. “I … that is we, yes. We think.”

“What is it?” asked Calvy.

“I am showing you on the IDIOT SAVANT,” said Bao. “I cannot describe it.”

Wordlessly, Bao set up the device, and the screen came alive with the image of the Quaggima, with glittering points and blots of light. “The lights are being the Tim-mys,” said Bao. “And the Joggiwagga.”

They watched for a time as the sparks and blotches moved slowly around the Quaggima, repetitively, back and forth, back and forth, then quickly another motion, then back and forth….

“Are you not seeing it, Madame?” begged Bao. “Mouche was being sure you would be seeing it.”

“I don’t see anything,” said Madame. “What am I supposed to see?”

Bao approached Simon and murmured something. He, in turn, murmured to Madame, and she stared at the screen with a shocked expression. “Oh, by all the Hagions….”

“What?” demanded Questioner. “What did he say?”

“He said the … that is, the dancers … they’re making love to it,” said Madame.

“To the Quaggima?” Questioner turned to Simon. “Is that what he said?”

“He said
stroke, stroke, tweak
, Questioner.”

“He said what?”

Madame threw up her hands. “Never mind what he said! I believe he’s right! Only …” She looked puzzled. “Of course, the anatomy is all wrong. How in heaven’s name would we …”

“Give me a moment,” cried Questioner, turning her attention momentarily to her data banks. “I see! If the Timmys amassed to do this … ritual, well, now that we can see it, Corojum can tell these current Timmys what to do”

“No,” said the Corojum, in mixed anger and sadness. “It would take many, many Corojumi to tell them what to do. And much rehearsal, also.”

D’Jevier cried, “But if the Fauxi-dizalonz can make anything …”

Corojum said, “Can disassemble quickly. Can put together in new shape with new information much more slowly. Making things right takes time. A few little things take as long as one very big thing. To make many, many Timmys would take a long time.”

Questioner said, “So we won’t try for Timmys. It can make one big thing.”

“Where is pattern?” cried Corojum.

“Mouche is a Consort,” Questioner responded. “He is trained to do this kind of thing. And you, Simon, you were also trained. And you, Calvy, from what I am told. And there are those monsters moving down the road, including one … one organ that might be useful.”

“You’re saying you expect the Fauxi-dizalonz to create a Consort for this Quaggima?” cried D’Jevier.

“Why not?” snapped Questioner. “You should approve of that.” She turned to the Corojum. “It would work, wouldn’t it? If Bofusdiaga will cooperate.”

Corojum dithered. “Is this something my friend Mouche would want?”

“Bofusdiaga can put him back the way he was, can’t he?”

“Creatures are never exactly the same,” whispered Corojum. “Maybe he will not be willing?”

“Does he have to be willing?” muttered Onsofruct. “Consorts are sold into duty all the time, are they not? I’m sure they’re not always willing.”