Dedication
With a huge thank you to LuAnn Breckinridge, whose daily assistance has made my “declining years” much easier
And, in memory of Frederik Pohl
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Lamentation
Chapter 2: The Dreaming of Abasio the Traveler
Chapter 3: Traveling Garments
Chapter 4: Saltgosh Music
Chapter 5: A Departure, and a Departure
Chapter 6: Encounters on the Road
Chapter 7: In the Company of Griffins
Chapter 8: Unnatural Beasts
Chapter 9: Finding Sun-wings
Chapter 10: Cultural Confrontations
Chapter 11: What Are Stinkers Made Of?
Chapter 12: House of the Oracles
Chapter 13: The Weigh of All Flesh
Chapter 14: The Official Arrival of Balytaniwassinot
Chapter 15: The Matter of Bao
Chapter 16: Fixit’s To-Do List
Chapter 17: Willum Gets His Ride
Chapter 18: A Road Ends: A Road Begins
Author’s Note
The Story of the Kindly Teacher
About the Author
Also by Sheri S. Tepper
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
THERE WERE ROADS DEEP IN THE WOODS LYING at the foot of the last great mountain range between the west coast and the lands of Artemisia. These would not have been called roads in most places; they did not even serve as roads very usefully; yet if one drove carefully, asked questions of the locals (also carefully, and not of just anyone), one could cover the distance with no more dangers and troubles than usual.
Abasio and Xulai were mindful of both the dangers and the troubles. They had been warned against the weather, against the solitary hunters and trappers, against the possibility of Ogres, even against the seemingly peaceful villagers that one might encounter here and there where a valley had opened up and submitted to agriculture: milk cows, sheep, and perhaps a few horses. And dogs, of course. Always dogs. And they were warned repeatedly about Lorpists.
Opinionated people were almost always a danger for someone, and Lorpists were men obsessed by a new opinion. New, at least, under that name. People had always been opinionated about “differences”—of skin color, of hairstyles, of language. Lorpists were a recently formed group who were opinionated about “wholeness.” Their opinion was that mankind had been made as a whole creature. He, and she, were meant to have two arms and associated hands with five fingers each, two legs with associated feet and five toes each, two each of ears, eyes, nostrils, and, in men’s case, testicles. Also, one navel, one mouth, one front and one rear aperture for excretion. The lexicon went on to specify where hair should grow and where not, and the completed description spelled out, according to Lorpists, how a “hyooman bean” should be constructed. Luckily the Lorpist inventory did not extend to internal organs or women.
Abasio and Xulai had been told that Lorpists were punitive toward people lacking any of the listed parts or having supernumerary ones. Since Abasio and Xulai’s year-old twins, Gailai and Bailai, did not have immediately recognizable legs or feet, since they did have gills under their arms, since they could swim and sleep underwater, and, indeed, traveled in a tank of water that was kept inside their traveling wagon, their parents feared for them, and for themselves—not that Xulai and Abasio were unable to defend themselves. They were equipped with not one but two ul xaolats, extremely effective weapons that could easily wipe out an opposing army before it had a chance to act. And could do it without disturbing the sleep of those who carried them.
BUT . . . their “mission”—as it had been strongly suggested they call it—required peaceful acceptance, not threats or holocausts. They wanted to be greeted, not feared. They wanted to be accepted, not murdered. So far, the score was weighted a bit heavily toward their saying “Let’s sneak off in the night before they all get out their weapons.” Still, they had had some notable successes and felt, on the whole, their time was being well spent. From almost every village they had traveled through, a few people had set out to travel to Sea Duck 2, on the coast, where the “changing station” was.
Xulai, while pleased about their progress, was somewhat worried over the dreams that Abasio kept having. Each night, he told her, he visited a non-Earth planet occupied by humans—always the same planet and people, where he hovered in the air above a pool of sapphire liquid while a couple of these human females talked about either visiting or revisiting Earth. Abasio said the two women addressed each other as Jinian and Silkhands. The same dream also contained a couple of children and a statue of a woman named Mavin. Needless to say, Abasio didn’t recognize any of them, certainly Xulai didn’t know any of them, and the purpose or origin of the dreams was a complete mystery. The best Abasio could say for them was that they were not violent or threatening—except, perhaps, to Abasio’s sanity and rest. He seemed to sleep a good deal on the wagon seat to make up for the rest he didn’t get on that other planet!
. . . which is what he was doing at the moment. Blue and Ragweed didn’t care. Half the time Abasio didn’t even hold the reins, just let them lie in his hands while the horses followed the particular “road” they were on, one they had been told would lead them to an occupied valley near the edge of the forest and thence, fairly quickly, over the high mountains to Artemisia via the Findem Pass. They had been furnished with an outrider, Kim, who rode some distance ahead of them on a horse named Socky. If Kim noticed trouble, he could ride back quickly and tell them to detour or wait or do whatever Kim thought sensible under the circumstances. So far they’d done a bit of hiding (once for several days) and some fast talking, but Abasio had never felt they were in mortal danger.
Just now Abasio was only slightly aware that Blue and Rags, their heads bobbing gently up and down, had entered a clearing among the trees. Off to the right, water from a clear pool leapt and skipped in a plunging stream toward the valley below, chuckling to itself as it went. Eyes now half open, reins still lax in his hands, he looked past the horses’ heads to see they had entered a small clearing in which stood a shop with an exceptionally well-painted sign, glittering gold on black:
BERTRAM THE TAILOR
Quality Clothing for All: Fine Clothing for Those Who Have Time!
Abasio snorted. He was sure they would have time. He and Xulai had agreed. No matter what else they had to do, they simply could not go on without a few days’ rest. And rest was needed by the horses, Blue and Ragweed, as well. As though reading his mind, the horses pulled the wagon into the shade of a large tree with a carpet of tall grass beneath it.
Blue remarked, “If you’d unhitch us, ’Basio, it’d be good to get a drink, and roll in the grass and eat a bit of it. That stuff where we were last night was the nastiest greenery I’ve tasted in some time.”
“Didn’t dare eat it,” added Rags. “Mighta been poison.”
Abasio got down from the wagon seat, stretched, went to the pool, and scooped up a cupped palm of water. He tasted it. “That’s all right, at least.” Yawning and stretching, he loosed the horses from the wagon. “Let’s leave the harness on until we decide where we want to put the wagon. If the tailor is amenable, we may take a day or two for rest.” Abasio had seen what Xulai had not. There was a smokestack in back of the shop, which, coupled with the stream that flowed from that direction into this pool, indicated the likelihood of a bathhouse.
Xulai murmured to him. “The fact that we’ve encountered a tailor is blessed fate. Or maybe Pre
cious Wind has been casting favorable spells for me. The children have outgrown every garment we had for them!”
“Would Precious Wind suggest tailored clothes? For babies?”
“One gives thanks for what one is given, even the unexpected,” she said piously. “Besides, we were given funds to pay for the unexpected.”
Leaving Blue and Rags to test the quality of the grass, they each took a child and went up the steps to the porch of the shop. As they opened the door, a bell rang and a stout, cheerful-looking man came bustling from the back to stand behind the counter.
“Yes, ma’am. Sir. What may I do for you?” he burbled. “I note you’re dressed for cold. Summer coming, you’ll need something lighter, perhaps?”
“It’s for the children,” murmured Xulai, unwrapping Gailai and placing her on the counter. “I need new clothes for the children.”
Bertram stared at her. Stared and then again. “Ma’am,” he muttered, “it is not my custom to clothe . . . fish!”
Across the counter from him, Xulai drew herself to her full height and coupled a blazing stare with a suddenly icy tongue. “If you do not better school your tongue, sir, you may find yourself without any custom at all.”
The stocky young man’s sad, dark eyes widened in sudden panic, as though he had unexpectedly stepped off a cliff. He gulped. “I did not mean to offend.” The walnut gleam of his skin hid his flush of embarrassment, but his shaking hands betrayed him as he ran them over his black, tightly curled hair.
“What did you mean to do? Didn’t I hear you refer to my children as fish?” She turned from him, ebony hair swirling, dusty, no-colored traveling robe lashing around slender ankles—ankles, deplorably, that were as dusty as the hair, as the soiled robe. The wearisome roads, wet or dry, were dirty. Even her hands and face were covered with a gray film. She looked at her wrists in fury. She could plant grass in the creases of her skin. A little sweat and they’d grow! Or tears! Tears would do it. She turned her face away. The rain of tears was imminent.
“Children? Madam . . .” The tailor was beginning to sweat. He gripped the lapels of his impeccably fitted coat, one he had put on only when he had heard their wagon arrive outside his shop. The woman was furiously angry. He was not so frozen in embarrassment that he failed to appreciate her beauty, her perfect features, her hair . . . Well, it was luxuriant and—if washed—it would no doubt gleam with blue lights. Beneath the travel dirt her skin was an unblemished olive. Her manner, on the other hand, was . . . well, it might be aristocratic, possibly regal. But could she possibly be the mother of those . . . ? It simply wasn’t believable!
The woman’s companion stepped between tailor and fury. With obvious effort to overcome great weariness, he forced his lips into a smile. “Let us begin again.”
The tailor turned toward him, helplessly starting to speak then stopping himself. He had not really noted the lined face, the drooping shoulders, the exhaustion in those eyes. If the man were left alone for five minutes he would be deeply asleep, and he moved as men do who have already been tried past endurance.
And yet . . . yet he managed a conciliatory smile as he laid his hand on the lady’s shoulder, stroking it, calming it and her. He was as travel-stained as she, but he carried both the road dust and the weariness as if they were accustomed garments, fully aware of their condition, knowing that everything about them needed mending, laundering, or even better, replacing with something cleaner and more comfortable. He did not seem resentful of what their clothing accused them of. Negligence? Haste? The tailor thought not. Neither time nor effort had been spared, everything else had simply been . . . well, secondary. Yes, secondary to whatever else it was the man needed to do. Just now he needed to move his tired eyes first to lock on the tailor’s, then to tug the tailor’s eyes toward the lady as though to say, “Look, really look here, my friend. See?”
The traveler reached out and drew her closer with one hand while reaching the other to smooth the frown lines between her perfect brows. He stood back at arm’s length and bowed toward her as he spoke over his shoulder. “May I introduce my wife, sir? This is Xulai, Princess Royal of Tingawa and daughter of the Duke of Wold. Wold, you probably know of? Tingawa is less well known to us on this side of the sundering sea. The stains of harsh travel do not betray her royal blood, but when she is extremely weary, her temper becomes fully—or shall I say perhaps exceptionally imperious.” He swept an elegantly executed bow in her direction, his cloak making a practiced and beautiful swirl as it moved and fell.
The tailor was not so overawed that he failed to notice her fleeting smile, the elegance of that swirled cloak. Even under all that dust it was magnificent. Any tailor worthy of the title knew of Tingawa, and the only fabrics that could be spoken of in the same breath as those in that cloak could be from no other place. Tingawa. The west. Over the sea. The lining had to be Tingawan silk! And the drape of that wool. Heavens! What was it called? It was from some particular animals. Kazi . . . something. He had only read of it!
The traveler raked his dusty hair behind his ears, digging his thumbs into his neck with a grimace. The gray at his temples was not entirely due to dust. Holding the tailor’s eyes, he spoke softly, with humor. “I, sir, on the other hand, am simply Abasio. Sometimes called Abasio the Dyer, sometimes Abasio the Traveler, also sometimes Abasio the Idiot, for marrying, or should one say ‘espousing,’ so far above myself.”
He reached to take one of the babies from Xulai’s arms, holding the child where the tailor could get a good look. “The future of our world, sir, depends upon these children of whom you spoke so hastily.” He held up a finger, silencing the tailor’s attempt at apology. “Spoke, may I say, thoughtlessly . . . But only in words, sir! Words are no matter, for Gailai and Bailai are too young to take offense, and my wife and I are sufficiently forgiving to ignore them.”
The princess glared, taking note of the emphatic pledge without agreeing to it in the slightest. As the tailor attempted another confused apology, Abasio cut it off with a raised hand.
“Let it be forgotten! Our purpose is simple. We have come to find Bertram, the much-lauded Bertram; Bertram who makes clothing for people from as far away as the eastern prairies all the way to the western sea; Bertram, who for some unknown and no doubt imperative reason does his exemplary work on the hill above Gravysuck, in White Mountain Valley.”
Abasio, in full cry, turned and thrust his arm swordlike toward the southwest, finger inexorably extended: “There, there is White Mountain, lunging upward, snow-clad as ever!” The arm dropped, the extended finger pointed down, to the south. “And there below us in the subsidiary valley lies the village of . . . yes, indeed, it IS Gravysuck.” The pointed finger curved, joined its fellows to become a cupped hand, held pleadingly toward him, as though begging. The voice dropped almost to a whisper. “So here, here, indeed, on this hill, indubitably and without contradiction, we find that you must be the paragon: Bertram!”
Stunned by the drama, Bertram struggled unsuccessfully to find a suitable reply. “Yes, yes, but . . .”
Abasio patted him forgivingly on his shoulder. “Your mistake is understandable. And your patronymic, sir?”
“ . . . Uh . . . patro . . .”
“Your father’s name?”
“Also Bertram . . .”
“Then you are Bertram Bertramson . . . ?”
“No, sir, Bertram Stitchhand, sir, one of the Volumetarian Stitchhands.” Had he not been incapable of doing so from birth, Bertram would have paled. He clapped his hand over his mouth instead. What had he done! What had he said! Why had he said it!
This time Abasio smiled from honest amusement, though he had no energy left to inquire into either the Stitchhands or the Volumetarians. His body was dirty, every crease of it was filled with the detritus that joins with sweat to form an intimate muck, an invasive slurry that itches and complains, drawing all attention
only to itself. He was tired with the weariness that doubts the existence of sleep. Xulai, too, was tired, dirty, hungry, and petulant as a . . . dyspeptic pig! They desperately needed a few days’ rest, if this man would only cooperate by giving them an excuse to take such a rest before Xulai committed all three of them and the babies to enmity everlasting.
Swallowing the exhausted sigh that was threatening to swallow him, Abasio said clearly, uttering each word separately, peering into Bertram’s eyes to make sure the man understood him: “As I had begun to say, many of the children born during the next century or two will resemble these children you see here. They will live in the seas. The temperature of the seas is fairly constant, changing only gradually. However, our young ones are not yet full-time sea-children, and they are traveling across area where there has as yet been no significant inundation.”
“I . . . ah . . .” gargled Bertram, his eyes fixed on the children in question. The two infants, about yearlings, he judged, were loosely wrapped in knitted shawls and were reclining in their mother’s arms, regarding him, Bertram, with great interest. Down to their waists they were appropriately human-looking, their skin, where it showed beneath the knitted caps, was more or less the color of an aged ivory button. Not as light as their father’s, though he was somewhat darkened by the sun. One little head of dark hair had reddish lights, the other blue. Their little faces were pretty, their eyes dark and very observant, and their smiles were delightful. Their nether appendages, however, whatever such limbs were called, were unquestionably fishy! But not scaled, no. The olive skin above the waist simply became darker—blue? Or green? More leathery, thicker, and it ended in feet that were . . . webbed. Quite webbed. Extravagantly webbed! The insignificant heels were companioned by very long, almost froggy toes!