The Visitor (5 page)

“Now,” assented the Royal Historian, amid the others' continued silence.

They went in procession to the small audience chamber, where Camwar was enjoying a freshly baked muffin spread with something delicious he had never tasted before. Nonetheless, when the Regent appeared, he rose hurriedly and bowed.

“Finish your breakfast,” said the Regent. “It will take us a few moments to have the carriages brought round and the Temple staff notified.”

The Regent went off to expedite matters, but the Royal Historian stayed behind and helped himself to one of the muffins. “Tell me about yourself,” he said gently, when Camwar had swallowed and wiped his lips.

“There's very little to tell, sir. I was reared by my uncle, who was a cooper. I inherited his business nine years ago. I have remained a bachelor; my shop is in Vrain Street by the bridge. I'm thirty-four years old. I had intended to spend the day at the Festival, so I allowed myself a bit more sleep than usual this morning. When I got up…” he shrugged. “Well, you see it.”

“Yes,” mused the Historian. “Yes, I certainly do. I'd wondered about that, you know. It came without warning, did it?”

“Unless the itchiness was a warning, sir. I've had that for donkey's years. Not so bad it was annoying, just enough to make me scratch at it now and then.”

“Itchiness. Well. I also wondered whether the person who received the sign might not hide it…”

His voice trailed away as he regarded the twisted loop of shining fire, and heard the harmonic singing that changed from time to time without ever approaching melody.

Camwar said, “I don't think it would allow me to hide it away, sir.”

“No, now that I see and hear it, it's clear it wouldn't.”

“Do you know what the sign means, sir?” Camwar asked.

“Its shape is an ancient sign for infinity,” the Historian answered. “The never ending but twisted loop of time, going out and returning. It is also the symbol for change of condition.”

“Change of condition, sir?”

“The change from child to adult, from adult to age. From winter to spring. From living to dying. You go as far as you can go one way, then you go the other way, and finally, you return to the starting point.”

“Ah,” said Camwar politely, to show he had heard. He had heard, but he had not apprehended. He felt as though he were suspended between the sky and the city, unable to make sense of what he saw from that height. “Ah,” he said again, taking a very small bite of muffin.

In mere moments he was escorted to a royal carriage that rolled silently on inflated tires behind felt-booted horses, for in Everday, people were attentive to noise as to any other form of pollution. The populace lined the streets, all the way from the palace to the Temple.

“How did they know where we were going?” the Regent asked.

“They saw him this morning, sire. As he came through the streets. I'm sure the people figured it out. They often do.”

Even the temple steps were lined with quiet people. For the first time since he had risen that morning, Camwar felt a touch of panic. He started to shake, only to feel the Historian's hand comfortingly on his own. “Don't worry, young man. It's nothing you need fear. Nothing evil is said of the device or those brought to it.”

“Quite right,” the Regent murmured, as he alit, then offered Camwar his hand. “You need have no apprehension on that score.”

They went up the steps together, the Royal Historian panting a little for the stairs, though shallow, were long. The huge iron-bound doors were open, and they walked through, down the center aisle of the lengthy nave, up more steps past the huge altar, around the reredos behind it, and into the small hidden chapel in the apse where hundreds of scented candles bloomed like flowers before images of the kindly goddesses favored in Everday. The device stood on a low dais beneath a pillared baldachin, a shadowy flame of glass, or that particular stone that comes from volcanoes, glowing with golden sparks inside it, like the ebb and flow of lights of distant cities seen through shimmering air from a mountain top. It stood above the height of a tall man, and it looked unlike anything made by hands, human or any other. The High Priest, in full vestments, including his best diadem, stood beside it.

He greeted the Regent with a low bow, murmuring as the Regent stepped near, “There's a kind of blurry place here, like a pair of handprints, and they're at the right level for a man to reach, so I suppose that's what he's to do.”

The Regent beckoned to Camwar, who approached the thing and laid his hands on the indicated places in the stone. A light shot from between his thumbs to touch the sign on his forehead. The lights in the device began to spin over and under or perhaps through one another, diverse sets of them converging beneath his hands in varying combinations and colors, as a deep, pulsing hum came from the device. Camwar felt nothing except an inner vacancy, as though his self had been removed and taken elsewhere, leaving his body poised where it was, half leaning on his hands.

Those watching saw a transformation. The man leaning on the device grew taller, much taller, and larger. His face altered. His garments transformed strangely, so that he appeared alien in his dress as in his features. What stood there, only briefly, was a giant clad in skin-tight leather and fur, a
bow saw across one shoulder, a great axe sheathed on his back, in one hand a drawknife and in the other an adze.

A great voice shouted:

“Behold Camwar of the Cask, in whose charge are all containments, holdings, bindings and restrainings, whether of torrents or plagues or winds. The soul of thunder is his to hold or loose…

“His is the discipline of the craftsman, the habit of care and attention to detail, his the accomplishment of perfection when upon the head of thunder he shall stand to account for the workmanship of his people.”

In the depths of the stone, life moved and hummed. The lights glittered and faded. No one moved. The light that bathed the sign went out, the stone was still, and Camwar was only Camwar once more. Self returned, but only into the space not occupied by that larger self that had come from, or perhaps through, the machine.

“Is that all we were supposed to do?” queried the Regent.

“Yes, sire, that was all,” Camwar said softly. “You are thanked for your commendable promptness.”

As they turned to leave, they were stopped by a flicker of light at the top of the device, a sparkling fire which was shooting bits of it off into nothingness, the sparkle gradually lowering, eating the device as it went, within moments reducing it to a pile of dust on the floor of the apse. There seemed to be nothing anyone could say about this, as it served only to verify what Camwar had said. Indeed that had been all they were supposed to do, and the device would not be needed again.

All of them, including the High Priest, returned to the palace. Many men of importance were gathered there to be seen talking with other men of importance, resulting in an abundance of conspicuous but immaterial discourse. Some persons had already sent minions to question the neighbors and customers of Camwar Vestavrees, in case the information might be valuable, or at the very least, interesting. Meantime they discussed What It All Meant, some considering the sign a threat and others a blessing, each according to his nature.

Since Camwar was secluded in the small audience chamber with the Royal Historian and the High Priest, the talkers had nothing but opinion to work on, and even that little gave out when it was announced that Camwar would be leaving very soon, on a ship.

“What ship?” they clamored. “A fishing boat? That's all we have.”

“No,” said the messenger. “He says a ship will come for him.”

Thus dismissed, the gathering removed itself from the palace to more comfortable surroundings where it continued to discuss What It All Meant for several days without changing in any respect the ratio of reality to opinion.

In the small audience chamber, meantime, the High Priest had asked whether Camwar had any words of wisdom to share, and Camwar had fixed him with an innocently speculative eye.

“Yes,” he said at last. “A time of great danger is coming.”

“For us?”

“For the world. Long ago, the people of the world cried out for help. In the reaches of heaven their cry was heard, and a Visitor came in answer to it. That Visitor began helping immediately, but secretly. Now the Visitor intends to be known to the people of the world and the people of the world must deal with that knowledge.”

“What did we cry out for?” asked the Regent.

“For God to take notice of us. To correct our errors. To govern us. The first answer that came was the Happening. The second answer is about to come, and we do not yet know how terrible the governance may be.”

“Why should we fear a just god?” the High Priest asked, with a little smile.

Camwar turned his full gaze upon the old man, saying in a puzzled voice, “I do not know that they prayed for a just God.”

The High Priest thought upon this, his face troubled.

The Historian asked: “And what is the role of the Guardians in this?”

Camwar shook his head. “We are to be needed, but I'm not sure for what.”

“You say ‘we.' How many of you will there be?”

Camwar frowned, as though in deep thought. “A book exists, the Book of Bertral. All of us are in it. Fire came first. Then the two who shape the world. Then the three keepers of souls, and the four fosterers of life, and after them, the five, of whom I am one. Of the five, I was called first, for my labors will be great. The six who vary and distinguish life come last in the book, but some of them may already be at work.” His voice trailed away into silence for a moment before he turned to the High Priest, saying, “You asked for wisdom? Hear these words. Nothing limits intelligence more than ignorance; nothing fosters ignorance more than one's own opinions; nothing strengthens opinions more than refusing to look at reality.”

In the middle of that night, Camwar woke in his luxurious palace room, knowing a ship had sailed up the river as far as it could and was anchored there, awaiting him. He rose and dressed himself, taking with him the tools and musical instruments that had been fetched from his shop. Though they made a heavy load, they seemed unburdensome.

At the river, he was guided dowstream to the shadow-wrapped ship by whispers and nudges, as though he had a good friend at his ear. A small boat put out from the ship and came to the riverbank to pick him up. The hooded ones bowed very low before the sign, and gestured him aboard.

“Are there others?” he asked.

The master of the ship replied, saying, “You are first of the five. Of the six, who will not be involved in the great battle, Befum, Pierees, Falasti, and Ushel have long been awake and at their labors; Geshlin will soon arise; Tchandbur has been identified. The rest, like you, live in lands far from the place of battle. They, like you, will be fetched to the battleground, Shining One.”

“I would prefer it if you called me Camwar,” he said, rubbing the sign on his forehead, which by now was very pale. “I am myself, though from moment to moment something
else seems to be looking on. Whatever will be required of me, however, can be best done if I remember who I am.”

The ship sailed away, leaving the town behind it, and in that town the High Priest went to bed in a mood halfway between humiliation and sorrow. He was grieving over his own ignorance and the fact that his people had no way of finding out what was happening. They had come to this land in ships! Once they had had ships! Their city was named after people who built ships! How could they know the world, without ships?

He woke in the morning remembering Camwar's words of wisdom and determined upon a crusade. He began with that day's exhortation in the Temple. “We must be able to find out what really is,” he said. “It is not enough merely to tell stories about what exists. We must go out into the world again. The sign has come. Therefore, build ships!”

By the time the people had been organized and begun work, building the things they would need to build the things they would need to build ships, they wondered why they had not done this centuries ago. It was exciting! It was remarkable! It was fun! And so the sign came and went and yet remained, while its coming set the people of Everday stoking the furnaces of the future.

T
he year after Roger died, Dismé's father fell ill. Call-Her-Mother was worried about him. She had little lines on her forehead when she looked at him, and she got cross at Rashel, which she almost never did.

“Don't forget the book,” Father whispered to Dismé the night after he got back from seeing the doctor. He was lying on the couch in the living room.

“I won't,” she promised him, worriedly. “But you're all right, Father. The medicine will fix whatever it is!”

He thought about this gravely for quite some time, moving his head restlessly on his pillow. “Yes,” he said at last. “But remember the book anyhow.”

She wanted to talk about the book, but some friends arrived just then, to visit her father.

“You ought to go to Hold, Val,” one of his friends told him. “There's a doctor there, fellow named Jens Ladislav. Seems to know more about doctoring than the rest of them put together.”

“I'll be all right,” Father said, squeezing Dismé's hand.

When the friends left, Gayla said, “You
should
go to Hold, Val. The doctor here in Apocanew isn't helping you.”

“I'm better,” he said, testily. “I'm much better. I think my stomach rebelled against the seasoning Cora uses when she cooks. Turnaway food is more highly spiced than our family is used to, that's all. I'm sure this was just a passing thing.”

And it seemed that it was, for Father did feel better. In a few days, he got up and went back to his work at the Office of Textual Approval, Department of Materials, Division of Education. He seemed so well recovered that it shocked them all when not long after, in the middle of the night, he became very ill indeed. His cries woke everyone. The doctor was called, and Father was taken away to the Medical Center. Dismé wanted to go visit him, but Call-Her-Mother said to wait until he was better, even though she and Rashel went to the Center the next day.

When they told her she couldn't go, Dismé felt the beast that lived inside her raise its head and sniff the air. The beast's name was Roarer. He was a strange unaccountable animal, and he was a secret, but sometimes when she was very angry he came out of his den. Father was hers, not Rashel's! They had no right to keep her from visiting him! She would get even with them by, by…

Roarer growled softly, cautioning her, reminding her of True Mother's words. Don't break out in anger. Get even some other way. Well then, what would be a secret pleasure she could have they wouldn't know about? Finding Father's book, of course. Finding it and hiding it in a place they'd never think to look, and doing it before they got back.

She began in the attics and searched frantically throughout the entire house, looking in all the old places plus other places she'd never dared get into before. Nothing. She sat fuming in the living room, her nails making small ragged moons in the palms of her hands. Where else was there? She'd been through the whole house except for the bottle room.

The thought resonated. She had never looked in the bottle room! She never went into the bottle room; she only passed it as quickly as possible. She hated the bottle room, which meant the bottle room would be the perfect place to hide something she wasn't supposed to find!

Half weeping over her own stupidity, she took a bit of her cheek between her teeth and bit down on it to keep her from yelping or making some other untoward noise while she
lighted a candle and carried it inside the dark space, full of whispering and gurgling sounds like voices she couldn't quite hear. To drown them out, she hummed to herself, as she crawled about the room and thrust her broomstick into every corner under the bottle racks. Wonder of wonders, she found it! They—or she—hadn't even bothered to hide it very well. They—or she—had wrapped it in an old towel and stuffed it down behind one of the older bottle racks, one that dated back five or six generations.

As soon as she made sure it was the right book, she went into her father's library and found another one the same size and color. Except for the worn name, it could have been the same book that she wrapped in the same old towel and replaced precisely in the place she had found it. Then she fled to her tiny corner room where she had already prepared a hideaway by loosening the nails in one of the boards covering the back of her closet. When she pulled all the nails out but one, the board could be pivoted aside to disclose a tiny attic under the corner of the porch roof. She took her mother's shawl, the one that had been shrunken into kerchief size, wrapped it around the book and placed the bundle inside.

When the closet board was pulled back into place with the nails re-inserted in their holes, the hiding place might as well not have existed. A row of hooks along the back of the closet held her cloak and her dresses, and no one would think of there being space behind them, not in a million years. She couldn't wait for Father to come home so she could tell him!

Call-Her-Mother came home first, saying Father would be home within a day or so. The next day, people arrived who tramped heavily through the hallway downstairs, back and forth to the bottle room. Dismé, tears running unheeded down her face, heard the clinkering sounds of tools, the mutter of voices. Outside her window a wagon was parked, and on the side was painted: Department of Health, Division of Death Prevention, Office of Bottle Maintenance.

“There he is,” said a deep male voice from downstairs. “Home again.”

Rashel and Call-Her-Mother went downstairs to see the visitors out. Dismé washed her face and froze it into her now usual expression of nothing.

“Now you can visit your father,” Call-Her-Mother said to Dismé in a kindly though far-away voice, as if she were thinking about something else.

Rashel grinned, and Dismé could read her mind. Rashel thought Dismé would run to the bottle room, expecting to find her father there. Her father wouldn't be there. There would be a bottle with his name on it, but that was all. She didn't cry. She didn't scream or yell or cry; she just turned and went up to her room.

“I guess she doesn't care about him much,” said Rashel.

Dismé heard the words but refused to react to them. She would not visit Father. She knew he would hate that, and besides, she had a half-formed intention regarding the bottle room, a thing she meant to do without any notion of how to go about it yet. She needed to find out more about many things before she did anything at all. All she could do now was watch them, and wait, and hope that something would happen to break the sad monotony.

Something did a few days later when Call-Her-Mother and Rashel left the house quite early in the morning. They didn't return until late in the evening. Dismé heard the horses and ran to her usual hiding place. She peeked out to see Call-Her-Mother half carrying Rashel into the house. Rashel's face was ashen where it wasn't bloody. Her eyes were blank. There was blood on her clothes, and she dripped blood as she walked. She looked half-dead. Dismé stepped back to be completely hidden as Call-Her-Mother dragged Rashel up the stairs.

“Come on, Rashel. Another step.”

A whisper full of horror and pain. “I can't. I can't. Not after what he did…to me.”

“Yes you can, and will. You brought this on yourself, now cope with it.”

“Don't tell…her…”

“Dismé? Of course not. What business is it of hers. I think you've learned where your responsibility lies regarding
Dismé. At least, I hope you've learned it. If you haven't, we won't be living here long.”

A moan. “…didn't know we were watching all the damned Latimers…”

“Now, another few steps, and you can go to bed.”

The staggering, stumbling went off down the hall to Rashel's room.

When they were silent behind the closed door, Dismé sneaked back to her room without making a whisper of sound. She had thought Rashel couldn't be hurt by anything, but Rashel had been hurt and her mother either couldn't or didn't protect her. Who did it? Who or what was it that Rashel feared? For the moment it was enough to know that Rashel feared something. From its lair, Roarer also rejoiced, putting out a fiery tongue to lick her heart.

Each night she peeked into the hidden cubby before she slept, to see that the book of Nell Latimer was there, where it belonged, where it was soon joined by one of the old dictionaries from Father's office, a book so fragile that one had to hold one's breath while turning the pages. When both Rashel and Cora were away, she took the book out of hiding and read it, making a list of words to look up in the old dictionary, slowly, carefully, writing each definition down, sometimes only after looking up a dozen other words. The words weren't that different, but the spelling was. Sometimes she had to guess. What was an
observatory?
What was
6:30 p.m.
What was
conscientious?
Eventually she figured out conscientious was the same as Regimic, and observatory was some kind of place to look at the stars, and 6:30 p.m. was a way to say day-endish.

The first page took her forever to read. The second one came more quickly. Then she had read five, ten, and finally, all, still without knowing whether the story they told was true.