The Family Tree (13 page)

When Grandmama was putting the unopened ones back in the box, she came upon two little scrappy ones that didn’t look official at all. They were in a curly faded hand that was hard for Grandmama to see, so Lucy Low read them.

“Well, what do they say on the outside, child?”

“One says…umm, it says, ‘For Erntrude Biwot, A reward for service much welcome, give by Amalia Gershon.’ And the other one says, ‘For Erntrude Biwot, For thy kindness. Lady Amalia.’”

“Where’d we get those?” Burrow wanted to know. “They aren’t even real. There’s no seers’ stamp!”

“Maybeso,” said Grandmama, “and maybeso not. They’re written on vellum, and it’s expensive stuff, vellum. And there’s gold around the lettering. Erntrude was my way-back grandmama, the one who came up the river from the sea. Both of these fortunes are in the same
hand, and it’s a lady’s hand, and she signs it as a lady would. Amalia Gershon. I’d say she was a seer, right enough, though perhaps not one of the Society of Seers. Not just anybody’s allowed to write a fortune, Burrow! That’d be forgery, and Onchik-Dau would chop off your hands for forgery.”

Burrow said stubbornly, “Well, what good are they? You can’t use ’em. Unless a fortune was give by a real Sworpian Seer, nobody’ll give you a net sinker for it. What good are these two?”

“Well, now, who knows? Likely my grandmama knew this lady who wrote them and trusted them to be good. Likely she valued them for more than the redemption would have been, and it’s even likely the fortunes inside were given for her, personal.”

This made all their jaws drop. Fortunes were fortunes. They didn’t go off until somebody broke the seal, and the only time somebody did that was when they had to. So long as the seal was intact, a fortune held itself in patience, just like coin, and when you paid someone with a fortune, they could look at the names and dates written on the outside and they’d know when that fortune was given and all the hands it had been through since. But a personal fortune! That was one given to a certain person, only for that person, and if these little scrappy ones were personal fortunes, then the person who received them was long gone.

“Well, fortunes work themselves out in the generations, so it’s said.” Diver nodded ponderously. “A fortune given your grandmama, Mama, should work out with your grandchild, don’t you think?”

“I should think.”

“Well, then. Lucy Low should take both these as well, just to have, in case. If they was give personal, like you say, doubtless only a descendant could profit by it. I imagine we’ll find geese in the sea town where the chimney is that needs mending, and fishing boats going out from there, and an ale house there, and housekeeping
needing done, and all our fortunes will be made in one place.”

In a bit they put their fortunes away, each in his or her own pocket. Grandmama put the leftover ones back in the box and gave the box to Diver for safekeeping. Then Sleekele and Grandmama pounded the dried fish and stewed it for breakfast. They started packing after breakfast. About noon Wash found a veeble that had been killed in the storm, so they roasted that, partly, leaving it underdone, though Onchik-Dau had told them they’d get worms if they didn’t cook their meat. Onchik-Dau was a fuss budget. It was almost worth being roofless just to get away from Onchik-Dau, always looking at them out of his watery eyes, always barking commands. Go here. Go there. Do this. Do that. Uttering directions at the top of his lungs, waving his arms, heaving his great fat body around. Well, worms or no, they ate heartily, putting the rest of the meat to dry in the smoke. Veeble jerky made good way-rations. By the time night fell, each of them had his or her belongings bundled up, and the household stuff—such as was moveable—was in the veeble packs. Uncle Wash took one pot, the littlest one, and a good veeble-hair blanket, for he was going east, around the Crawling Sea, to the Dread Marches, hunting the treasure that his fortune promised.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Grandmama. “Tomorrow morning we load the pack veebles, turn the others loose, and away we go.”

“Chimary and Chock and Willigong and Bai will like that,” said Lucy Low. “They like to travel, even when it’s only to market. So where will we go? What’s the nearest sea town? Where are we headed to?”

“Down the coast of the Crawling Sea,” said Diver, running his hands over his hair to smooth it down and scratching himself vigorously around the middle. “Through Isher and Fan-Kyu Cyndly, all the way to Zallyfro in the country of Estafan.”

D
r. Winston, so Dora was told, could not possibly have been murdered for any personal reason. He was—depending upon whether Dora talked to his wife, his neighbor, his mistress, his boss or his coworkers—a jewel, a prince, a sweetheart, an irreplaceable project manager and a seminal thinker.

“What exactly is that?” Dora asked, with a straight face.

“Well, I mean,” said the coworker, running his hands through his already disordered hair, “Winnie came up with stuff nobody else would ever think of. Like that pig. And the talking dog.”

“Talking dog?”

“Well, yes, sort of. It could only manage about a dozen words, but you could tell the brain was there. When old Ralph—that was the dog’s name—said ‘food,’ you knew he meant it.”

“Do you still have this dog?”

“Poor thing got sick. Winnie took it home, but he said it died.”

“What exactly does that have to do with improved breeds of livestock?”

“Well, the boss didn’t think it had anything to do with anything,” said the coworker. “Dr. Winston was always getting himself in trouble with the boss, but he used to say every time he isolated a particular combination of genetic instructions and saw what the effect was, he’d filled in a bit of knowledge. He said eventually we should be able to cure or prevent all genetic diseases. Eventually we should be able to tailor livestock to particular ecologies. Winnie really opened our eyes to the possibilities. He was working on clusters, you see. Discrete genetic items that added up to more than the sum of the parts. One change in skull structure plus one change in hormonal tissue, plus or minus some other odds and ends, gave us horns on a pig. Horns are useful for some animals, not for others, depending. We should be able to supply them either way, to order. Some brain modifications, another change in skull structure to make it curved instead of flat, and a change in throat and tongue structure should theoretically give us a sheepdog that could talk to the shepherd. You know, something along the lines of, ‘Bring the gun, boss, there’s a coyote over that ridge.’ Actually, Winnie was still working on that.”

“It sounds too simple,” said Dora.

“I’m making it sound one hell of a lot simpler than it is,” the man grated, almost resentfully. “The change in skull structure that makes it curved so it can accommodate a voice box might actually be sixty or seventy changes in DNA. No. It isn’t simple at all! A lot of it seemed to be instinctive with him. Magical. There are only a few people in the country who can do even half what Winnie did, and I’m not one of them. He used to say, ‘Bert, any fool can see so-and-so.’ It would make me madder’n hell, because I couldn’t see it. He was a genius, Winnie was.”

“Would there have been any…oh, say, professional
jealousy? Any quarrels over who discovered what first?”

Absolute denial. No, and no. Winnie had been generally adored. Winnie was a prince, a jewel, one really nice guy.

“He really was an awfully nice man,” said his widow. “I know all about his mistress, too, so don’t go thinking nasty thoughts. He often had these little affairs because he was simply too nice to hurt women’s feelings. I should have been jealous, I suppose, but I wasn’t. It might have been different if we’d had children, a threat to the family and all that, but I have my own work. Having one’s own work is a powerful anodyne against jealousy, don’t you think?”

Though slightly shocked at this matter-of-fact attitude, Dora had to agree that having one’s own work made a big difference. Sometimes all the difference.

The widow nodded. “He was such a good man, an ethical man! Do you know, he paid for all his animals himself, and for their food and upkeep. He owned them, and his contract with the lab specified so! He would not allow them to be taken away and used for some cruel experiment. He thought it unconscionable that men raised apes and taught them to talk, then when the grant was over, they let them be taken for medical experiments. Winnie wouldn’t do it!”

“Remarkable,” said Dora.

“We were so comfortable together. I’ll miss him terribly,” said Winnie’s widow. And then the tears leaked down her cheeks, unregarded.

“We’re getting nowhere with this,” Dora told Phil, almost angrily, as they left Winston’s home. “Lynn Beatty says there have been two other stabbings, one in June, one in May. Not our territory, but I think we ought to find out about it.”

Phil demurred. “Hey, Dora, we got enough to do….”

“Yeah, Phil. And I’d like to do it. I’ve got the names and case numbers. You mind?”

Phil, still feebly protesting, stopped with her by records, where Lynn Beatty furnished the file on Martin Chamberlain, geneticist, and on Jennifer Williams, botanist who had worked for Pacific-Alaskan.

“Doesn’t your ex work for Pacific-Alaskan?” Phil asked.

Dora nodded mutely. He did indeed. She went through the folder. All the recorded interviews seemed to establish that Chamberlain had also been a prince, a jewel.

“What is it with these scientists?” Dora grumbled. “Three people stabbed, and two out of three were candidates for sainthood.”

“I suppose you want to go out to Pacific-Alaskan and ask some questions?”

She shook her head regretfully. “I don’t, Phil. I don’t want to run into…Well, Jared. He’s being rotten about my moving out.”

“Trouble?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t…done anything except make veiled threats. He says he won’t let me do this or that.”

“Dora, if you need help…”

“I know, Phil. I know you’d help. God, there’s half a dozen of the guys I could ask to help if I needed it. I don’t know I need it. I want to know about Chamberlain, though.”

“Why don’t I talk to Manconi, set up a lunch date, maybe. Maybe we can solve both of them at the same time.”

The following morning, Dora read in the morning paper an account of what the reporter called “spontaneous reforestation” of some badly eroded areas along creeks that had been polluted by mining operations. Scientists had found mineral-fixing weeds growing on the tailing piles, weeds that pulled the heavy metals out of the soil and concentrated them to a level that made recovery of the metals economically feasible while also allowing regrowth of native plants. Though metal-fixing plants in
general were not a new discovery, said the reporter, the very efficient ones on the tailings were a species new to science.

Elsewhere in the paper was a report on certain areas of northern Africa, where the U.N. had been attempting to restore native vegetation by reducing the flocks of goats and sheep which had denuded the land for centuries. Though starvation threatened the herds every year, the native peoples counted their wealth by heads of livestock and vehemently opposed reduction in their numbers. Recently a spontaneous mutation of the thorny growths native to the area had proved to be extremely palatable to the flocks. The new plant grew so freely and was so nourishing that the need for reducing herds was being questioned.

Dora read these accounts with a good deal of interest. On her way out, she remarked to the weed, “Morning paper has some stories about new plants. Maybe they’re cousins of yours.”

The weed nodded in the early summer breeze, unconcerned at the news. It had ramified itself above the door, creating a little half-domed sunshade before continuing up the side of the garage. One sprig had reached the eaves, where it had turned abruptly sideways and crawled along under the gutter, adding about three feet a day. A bird had chosen this runner for a nest location and the vine had obligingly ramified again at the nest site, forming an appropriate base for the collected twigs and fibers.

Dora shifted her trash can nearer the alley, where the garbage men could get at it. When she rolled it, she saw the area beneath it covered with fine, hairy roots that ripped away with a tearing sound. The fibers had actually perforated the bottom of the trash can and had evidently eaten the contents! Well, if they wanted garbage, what the hell. She went upstairs, got her kitchen garbage, brought it down and put it where the trash can had been, then went upstairs to get dressed for work. When she came down half an hour later, the garbage was gone.

That day, she had lunch with Loulee.

“I don’t believe it,” said Loulee. “All the garbage? What about egg shells? What about orange peels?”

“Gone,” said Dora, chewing on a bit of tomato that had all the taste of cardboard. “The weed eats it.”

“Can I have some seeds?”

“I haven’t seen any seeds recently. How about a cutting?”

“You mean, like to put in moist dirt, to root?”

“It works with some things.”

Loulee came over to Dora’s place that evening. They went out on the stoop and Dora explained to the weed (Loulee giggling helplessly) that Loulee wanted a cutting, so she could feed her garbage to the plant. Dora then went in to get a knife. When she came back, Loulee was sitting on the stoop, very pale, with a chunk of weed in her lap.

“It gave it to me,” she said. “It’s got roots and everything. It dropped in my lap. It just gave it to me.”

P
rince Izakar’s Palmia is split in halves, north and south, by the Fraiburne River. The river has as its source Pangloss Brook, which runs south from the Crawling Sea through that convenient chasm in the Sharbak Range
known as the Slash, the only easy access between the lands north and south of the great mountains. By the time the brook reaches Isher, it is much enlarged by tributary streams, and there it becomes even larger through confluence with the River Scruj—which drains the Mellow Marches—to which river was already added the fullness of River Roq, flowing northward from the Wycos Valley.

Thus the stream that comes down to the sea westerly through Palmia is wide and plenteous, a gathering of waters from many mountains, including all those south and east of the Crawling Sea. Much water traffic comes down this river into Lake Barsifor and farther down through the kasturic locks at Giber. Much land traffic goes up alongside the river, on roads well maintained for the sake of commerce. All this I learned from Prince Izakar, who was as well informed on the subject of geography as he seemed to be on any other subject one might mention—or not. He was quite capable of lengthy disquisitions on subjects no one but he knew anything about.

After spending only one day in Palmody, our troop left the town to ride eastward along the Fraiburne, now accompanied by Izzy (which is what he asked to be called), two additional pack animals—burros, said Izzy—one additional body servant named Osvald Orbin, and two bodyguards, Oyk and Irk, who, after the manner of the kannic people, walked on foot at Flinch’s heels. Both were large persons with sharp eyes and many battle scars, capable, so Izzy said, of taking care of him in any of the usual types of brawls.

“They do not bid fair to add intelligence to our discussions of an evening, around the fire,” I remarked with a sniff.

“No,” Izzy replied. “The kannic people tend to be laconic and non-introspective. When some bully decides to take me apart for no discernable reason, however, I find that my usual preference for articulate speech gives
way to admiration for mute muscle. Their scars speak for them.”

I knew what he meant. “Some of the guards who worked for the sultan were of the other type, all thunder and no rain, full of the dullest bluster! In the stories I tell, I never include such simple bullies. In my tales, all love is true, all service is honorable, all nobles are faithful to their lord—as well as being handsome and well spoken. Except for great villains, of course, and they are much above mere bullying. I allow them to shine darkly as they seduce, entice, or play the traitor.”

“If there is one thing I have learned for sure,” replied Izzy, “it is that life is not a story.”

“I thought that’s what Ghotians believe,” said Sahir, cantering up and pulling his umminha—a tall white beast with a yellow mane and a ferocious expression—to a walk beside us. “Isn’t your world merely a story told by Ghoti to amuse himself?”

This was said in a purposefully nasty way, as though to provoke Izzy. Though Sahir was sometimes hospitable, at other times he seemed to relish being unpleasant to Prince Izakar, for some reason I did not understand.

Izzy refused to take offense. “The bishops would not use that phraseology, though in essence you are correct. Personally, however, I’ve never accepted the doctrine. If a God is all imagining, as Ghoti is said to be, then why should he wish to imagine a place in which beauty and squalor are so inextricably mixed? If I were inventing a world for my pleasure, I would cover the trash bins and fence off the midden. In fact, I would probably make both trash bins and middens unnecessary. On the other hand, if the world is
real
, then one understands the necessity for squalor. One understands that though Ghoti, or some other god, may have created it, it is not an arbitrary fabrication but is susceptible to those inexorable natural laws which demand an up for every down.”

Prince Sahir said idly, “What natural laws? Wouldn’t the creator manufacture those as well?”

“I prefer to think of them as intrinsic to time and
space,” said Izzy in his most serious voice. “In this universe, one and one always make two. Not two and a half. Not three. But two. In this universe, things fall…ah, down. Not up. Not sideways.”

“You mean this world?” I asked, confused by all this talk of universes.

“Of course,” said Izzy hastily. “That’s what I mean. This is the nature of the stuff of which the…world is made.”

I persisted, attempting to understand. “But if the deity had made the world of other stuff, then other things might happen.”

“Possibly, but they would be consistent other things. As, for example, things would buoyantly fall up, and one and one would always, synergistically, make two and three-quarters. However a world is made, or whatever it is made of, each world must be consistent to its own laws. This, to my mind, is the main difficulty with Bubblism. The world is supposedly created only in the mind of Ghoti, where, presumably, anything may be imagined, but in fact, anything is not; only some things are, those which are consistent. One and one, do, in fact, always make two.”

“Ghoti may have made up the laws first, as children make up the rules to games they play,” I argued. “Allowing exceptions for himself, of course.”

“Possible, but trifling if true. I prefer to think the laws are a consequence of materiality, which may itself be a consequence of the nature of space and time. An immaterial universe…ah, world…might have no laws. This one does, however, which leads me back to the point I made at first. This is not a story. Because it is not a story, it is unlikely to contain only honorable persons, and it is therefore entirely possible we will encounter at least a few unpleasant ones who will attempt to do away with us for any reason or for no reason other than a customary dislike of creatures other than themselves.”

“We will protect you,” said Sahir in his sneering tone. “Fear not.”

Izzy smiled his thanks. He did it sweetly, quite sincerely, though I’m sure he thought Sahir himself did not look as though he were up to protecting much. The mounted guards, however, were another matter. They were a burly group who might well protect him, particularly Soaz, with his spiky whiskers and his almost amber eyes, who gave the impression of violence held barely beneath his skin. Even among a race that was known for bulk, Soaz would be considered large. And then there were the umminhi, which had been known to fight violently when attacked. And Oyk, of course. And Irk.

“This is very pretty country,” I said, trying to change the subject. Though I liked Prince Izakar very much, he had a habit of going on and on about things that made no sense. He talked of Mathematics. He talked of Science. And he questioned everything, all the time, leaving a person no firm place to stand! Though we were little different in age, he made me feel very young and stupid. Far better not have learning if all it did was make things uncertain. Now I would have to worry about being attacked by some person who didn’t like other kinds of people. Though, as I came to consider the matter, almost all the kinds of persons were already represented in the troop. Izzy and I were ponjic, and Prince Sahir was suinic. Most of the guardspersons were feledic, while Izzy’s body servant was marsian and the handlers kapric. What type of person was left to attack us? Were we to be assaulted by kastori? Or armakfatidi?

Impossible! Armakfatidi were far too concerned about comfort and elegance to go about attacking persons!

Izzy had been watching my face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured with a sympathetic smile. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Even though I don’t believe in Bubblism, I’ve been affected by it. Ghotians tend to discuss the most outré possibilities without discomfort
because they believe nothing can happen which has not already been ordained.”

“Well, talking about such possibilities in advance is just worrisome,” I retorted. “If I’m going to be attacked tomorrow, I’d just as soon not think about it now.”

“When ignorance is bliss…” said Izzy, then had to explain the saying, which neither Sahir nor I had heard before. We knew nothing of life insurance.

Thereafter we talked of the scenery. There were rafts of logs coming down the Fraiburne, each with its complement of forest tribesmen. The forest people provided wood for building and for fuel, as well as doing some construction. They were mostly kastori, known as a diligent, hardworking people, and they waved at us from atop their bobbing rafts, enjoying a rare opportunity for relaxation.

The farms along the way were mostly psitid. Some of the psitid peoples are less vocal than others, and those of larger size tend toward the agricultural arts. I saw numbers of them in the fields, tweaking out weeds as their long legs stalked along the rows.

“Look there,” roared Soaz, as he galloped his steed from the head of the column to join us at the rear. “The joining of the rivers!”

We stared ahead, seeing a vast lake of disturbed water where the River Scruj met Pangloss Brook.

“The snows have melted,” explained Izzy. “The rivers are bursting their banks. We must stay on this side until we reach Bannock Gorge, spanned by a high bridge across the flood. Then we will come back on the other side to Isher, which lies somewhere beyond all that water.”

“You are Lord of Isher?” asked Sahir.

“Only in a manner of speaking,” Izzy answered. “I may be, someday. Before leaving, I obtained letters of introduction from Uncle Goffio to the factotums in Isher and Fan-Kyu Cyndly, and I imagine we can depend upon their hospitality as we are traveling through.”

I thought privately that if the hospitality extended to
baths, preferably hot ones, it would be quite good enough. All this travel made one itchy, and the baths in Palmia had offered only cold water. “Beyond Fan-Kyu Cyndly we come to Estafan?”

“Fan-Kyu lies inland of the shore counties,” Izzy replied. “The shore counties are high tundra, which is settled, where at all, by a water-loving people who dance in the flood as we would on floors. They are called the onchiki and they are ruled, if it can be called that, by the Onchik-Dau, an overseer caste of great antiquity. Basically, they are fisherfolk, though they also maintain flocks of veebles who graze on the downs along the sea.”

“I did not know veebles could be herded!” I cried. Grandfather had had a pair of veebles on the farm, and they had lived in a pen.

“Only by the onchiki,” Izzy averred. “They seem to understand the veebles as no other people do.”

“Can these onchiki talk? Or are they like the armakfatidi, always grummeling at one?”

Izzy shrugged. “Since I have been at some trouble to learn what is purported to be their language, I hope they do indeed talk.”

We reached the confluence of the rivers and continued beyond it, upstream along the River Scruj. Far ahead on our right, we could see a great fall plunging from the broad height of the Wycos Valley, the River Roq that flowed between the Big and Little Stonies. Between ourselves and this cataract a high, arched bridge spanned the river from rocky pinnacle to rocky pinnacle, the riotous flood pouring beneath. On the near side of this bridge we espied an indistinct clutter which, as we rode closer, turned out to be a great number of wagons and persons and beasts, all waiting to cross.

We rode to and through the crowd, the umminhi snarling and striking out with their forelegs to make space, Oyk and Irk growling curses in their throats, Flinch nervously tip-tupping along in the rear. By the time we
reached the bridge, a considerable path had been opened for our company.

Izzy rode forward. “Is the bridge closed?” he asked mildly.

The person in charge, while casting nervous glances at the umminhi, muttered, “Just warning the people, is all.”

“Against what?” asked Sahir.

The guard jittered, shifting from foot to foot, jerking his head from side to side. “Them trees is all stirred up,” he muttered, only to be replaced by another guard.

“Purpose of your travel,” he demanded.

“I am Izakar, Prince of Palmia,” said Izzy rather loftily. “I am traveling to Isher and Fan-Kyu Cyndly to familiarize myself with the needs of the inhabitants prior to ascending the throne.”

The guard’s jaw dropped. A mutter began among the crowd. “It’s the prince. Izakar. Him, the ponji one. You know, Izzy. The one they cut his dah’s head off! Lookit his hair. It’s red.”

The guard’s mouth shut with a snap. “These are your…your people, Your Highness?” He gestured at our troop.

“Certainly they are my people,” Izzy said loftily. “Would I travel with someone else’s people?”

Sahir started to say something, then subsided with a glower. The guard opened the barricade and motioned us through, then approached within a handsbreadth of Flinch. “Watch out for them, Your Royal Highness, sir.”

“Them who?”

“Them trees and the ones who’ve stirred them up.”

Izzy told the guard we would indeed watch out for anyone stirring up the trees, but which trees had been stirred up?

“Them trees, you’ll see ’em.” He made a gesture that was half a bow, then stood scowling as we passed.

We heard the barrier clang behind us. The feet of horse, umminhi, Oyk and Irk drummed the bridge:
ca
dop bawhop—shoof shoof (pit-pat), cadop bawhop—shoof shoof (pit-pat)
. The structure beneath us strummed to the current boiling by, red as a brickmaker’s bathwater. Over the shivering arch we went, high above the flood, staring ahead where the bridge sloped down into the road. All along the road were trees in clusters and clumps and copses, filling all the space between the road and the river.

“The trees look quite all right to me,” said Izzy to no one in particular.

“I’ve been this way before,” said Soaz, “though it’s been many, many years. I thought there were hayfields along here. Of course, the woods could have grown up since then….”

We rode into the woods, into a comb of gold-green light, a fluttering shade, a dazzle of molten gold seen through a sieve of shadow. Blossoms of light burned in the grass, vanished in shade, only to reappear once more like sheaves of stars, twinkling. I took note. This was an excellent story place. I could use it in a tale or two. The road sloped downward, parallel with River Scruj, and we had not gone a great distance before we saw the great expanse of turbid water ahead of us, where the road turned away to the north along the mere that was normally Pangloss Brook.