Changer (Athanor) (37 page)

Helping with his presentation is Cleonice Damita.  She currently looks enough like Isidro that she passes as his sister.  Actually, she was born in Mexico of an Aztec woman and a conquistador who was not as Spanish as he claimed.

Cleonice’s father had kept an eye on her.  When he realized that his athanor heritage had been passed on, he had taken his daughter from her homeland.  She was about forty then, and her unaging was beginning to cause comment.  Some years later, he had died in a street riot in Spain, never having been apotheosized, known to family and friends as a good man in a tight place.

The third member of the contigent is Oswaldo Barjak.   Shorter and stockier, Oswaldo resembles a plump Mexican, especially in his bright
hurachas
and embroidered shirt.  In fact, Oswaldo’s heritage is far older.  Born a Mongol, he had known Genghis Khan, and had served in his army of conquest.

The depredations of the Horde had made him swear off military life.  For centuries, he has been a poet and scholar, known for great knowledge, odd flashes of passion, and a tendency to act the gentle clown.  In the last century or so, he has begun a study of shamanistic magic.

Isidro and Cleonice produce photographs and progression curves supporting their claim that the plight of South America has serious repercussions for global ecology.

After they finish their introduction, Amphitrite rises and comments on the impact of global warming, deforestation, and unregulated dumping on the ocean environment.

Point and counterpoint, argument and rebuttal follow.

“Perhaps many here do not know,” Isidro Robelo says, “or choose to forget, that the history of South and Central America have been actively shaped by athanor intervention.”

Cleonice, her very presence a reminder of one of those interferences, takes up the point.  “My mother’s people told legends of Quetzalcoatl, the green-feathered serpent who also took the form of a white man.  They said he was sent out into the world to reform it.”

Ignoring Arthur’s attempt to respond, Oswaldo Barjak expands on the point: “Inca legends spoke of Viracocha, the old white man who created men and women, and then educated them.  They told how Viracocha walked away over the sea, but prophesied his return.”

“That was just Vaiinamoinen!” Eddie protests.  “He always was arrogant.  That’s why he didn’t bother to alter his appearance to blend in with the local populace.”

“And Vaiinamoinen’s arrogance worked against the Incas,” Oswaldo says, “for when Pizarro and his men came, the locals believed that he was Viracocha returned.”

Cleonice adds, “As the Aztecs believed that Cortez was Quetzalcoatl come back.”

Arthur gavels for silence.  “Certainly you see that these very instances are reasons why we should not interfere in human societies!  Vaiinamoinen meant well, but he did not consider the later repercussions of his actions.”

Isidro Robelo shouts, “Yet no one stopped later interference that favored the conquistadors!  Many Spanish chronicles recount how Saint Michael and his angels assisted Pizarro’s forces against the cannibals of Puná.  Then there was the ‘miraculous’ intervention of the Virgin Mary that smothered the fires when the Incas’ forces attempted to retake Cuzco.”

Oswaldo, who is rarely seen without a book in his hand, continues pedantically, “Modern historians explain these as either a ploy by the Spanish—who had been chided by their own king for the extremity of their actions—to demonstrate that God was on their side, or as the influence of the fanciful literary romances of the time on the style of the chronicler’s reports.  We know otherwise, don’t we?”

Arthur shouts over the building hubbub.  “Had I been in a position to do so, I would have stopped that action.  I was not then.  Now I am in a position to advise against similar action.  Records of that interference—no matter how fancifully recorded—have been used as ‘proof’ that there was ‘alien’ interference in earthly affairs.  I don’t know about you, but that’s a little too close to reality for me.”

Isidro shakes his head.  “I disagree.  We are responsibile for our past actions and for mitigating what they have snowballed into now.  Had South America been left to the Incas and the forest tribes, today’s ecological crisis might not have occured!”

Jonathan Wong protests, “And how far back would you have us be responsible for the past actions of our kinfolk?  I founded a philosophy.  Arthur has left his mark in several legend-lines—including one that provided an initial impetus to monotheism.  Does that mean he is responsible for correcting every religious war or for counseling Arthurian scholars?  Let us be reasonable!”

Isidro tosses back his handsome head.  “Perhaps if he had, those areas wouldn’t be in the muddle they currently are!”

By the end of the scheduled meeting time, there have been further point and counterpoint, anecdotes galore, and furious clarification of perceived historical fact.  Nothing is settled, but the question of what is meant by “interference” and the extent of its ramifications have been closely defined.  

Arthur’s voice is husky from shouting.  Eddie is worn and pale.  Despite the demands his injuries put on his body, he has insisted on remaining at Arthur’s side.  Vera is beside the King as well, her eyes stormy as the most volatile of the protestors insinuate that Arthur has ulterior motives for permitting current trends to continue.

The meeting formally adjourns at five that evening, but feelings are so high that there is no doubt that the discussion will continue wherever two or more of their number gather.

Other than the Changer, only one person in all that company expresses no opinion on the issues.  Tommy Thunderburst, his guitar case hanging loosely from one long-fingered hand, waits patiently for Lil Prima to stop arguing with Frank MacDonald so she can drive him to the Crowne Plaza Pyramid where the South American contingent are entertaining tonight.

Moved by some obscure impulse, the Changer walks over to Tommy.  “So where do you stand on the matter?”

“It would be good if we could help,” Tommy answers, “but can we?  I mean, we can’t always help ourselves.  We’re full of shit thinking we’re the answer to the world’s needs.”

It is one of the longest speeches the Changer has heard from the laconic musician.  “So you don’t feel we should do anything?”

“Maybe, y’know, we should get our own house in order.  All this arguing reminds me of the days when too many of us thought we were, like, gods.”

The Changer nods.  “And we’re not.”

“Hell, no, man!  We’re just not dead.”

“Your hosts tonight might be surprised by your ambivalence.”

“Why?  I’m no green peacer.”

“But you’re a musician.”

Tommy’s gaze is clear and sad.  “The single most self-destructive profession—least that’s how it looks from this side.  Oh, I don’t mean the orchestra folks; they’ve got harmony of soul as well as when they’re playing.”

He pauses.  “Least I think so.  But I’ve never figured out how rock n’ rollers, most of whom are trashed off their asses most of the time, can get off telling the world not to spoil nature.  I mean, if you don’t tend your personal ecology, where do you get off telling others how to tend to Mother Earth?”

“Interesting.”

“Hey, man, I know it.  I mean, I’ve been there.  Over and over again.  You coming to the party?”

“Probably not.”  The Changer gives a rueful shrug.  “I have spoken with more people today than I usually do in five years.  I will stay here and wash dishes or something else helpful.”

“Yeah.”  Tommy’s eyes grow vague, and the Changer thinks he is forgotten.  He is departing when Tommy says, “Remember what it was like when we didn’t give a shit who knew we were different?  Then we didn’t do the dishes and eat catered banquets.  There were giants in the earth in those days and we were them.”

“I remember those days,” the Changer says, “although I lived then much as I do now.”

“There were servants,” Tommy says, “and no press, no television.  We did what we wanted.”

“There were always uprisings and witch-hunts.”

“Only for those who weren’t careful.  Lots of humans liked having heroes.  Look at how they still pine for Arthur.  Shit, the French even think de Gaulle will return.  That’s pathetic.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re really here.  They don’t got to dream about heroes.  We’re here.  Magic and might, power and grandeur.  I mean, we’re
here
.”

“So we are.”

“Yeah.”  Tommy sighs.  “I liked my last life.  I was like a king again, with my knights and my buddies.  I didn’t need to fuss about all this shit.  If I wanted something, it was mine.”

The Changer shakes his head.  “You will probably have that again.  You could have it now.”

“I need the crowd,” Tommy says, only partially listening.  “I can’t just jack off in private.  That means a persona who can get away with shit.”

“I see.”

“Here comes Lil.  Guess it’s time to jam.”

“Yes.”  

The Changer gives Lil a polite bow as they pass.  Shahrazad has been locked up for several hours now.  Doubtless she could use a run.  After everything he has heard these past hours, so could he.  

Arthur rubs his eyes with fingers that feel thick as sausages.  Lifting a plastic bag of trash (after the afternoon’s arguments, it seems emblematic of the wastefulness of all the Western World) he troops into the kitchen.  Lovern is there loading trays and serving pieces into the dishwasher.

“I don’t suppose you could summon up some brooms to do the cleanup, could you?” the King asks his court wizard.

“I’ve already activated the routine housekeeping spells,” Lovern assures him.  He has draped his silk jacket over a chair, but otherwise remains formally attired.  “It’s a pity that Odd and Pod, Duppy Jonah’s octopus servants, aren’t here.  They have arms enough for washing up.”

“Maybe the Changer could…” Arthur guffaws at the image.

“Don’t laugh,” Lovern replies.  “He’s tending to the outer gardens and has expressly requested solitude.  I suspect that an anomaly walks among our shrubbery.”

“I hope no one sees… whatever he is.”

“He hasn’t survived this long without being careful.”

“True.”

The King carries the trash out to the garage, coming back with some empty bags.  Perching on a stool, he begins to sort recyclable materials.  “I’ve put Eddie to drafting and printing a summary of today’s meeting.  He refused to go sleep.”

“
That
I may be able to help with.”

“Only with Eddie’s permission.  Vera is checking the guest rooms.  Almost everyone went out to the South Americans’ party.”

“How’s Eddie feeling?”

“Not great—not that he’ll admit it.  I wish that Garrett had been available to attend the Review.”

Lovern nods, knowing that the greatest of the athanor doctors might be able to hasten Eddie’s healing — or at least provide him with relief from the pain.  Garrett Kocchui, however, is currently serving with a Red Cross emergency medical team and Eddie had categorically refused to have him summoned.

“Anyone else stay in?” Lovern asks.

Arthur nods.  “The Smith—he’s downloading the late e-mail from those of our people who were teleconferencing.  Anson’s helping him.  Said something about spiders knowing webs.”

“Amphitrite?”

“She went to the South Americans’ party.”  Seeing the panicked expression on Lovern’s face, Arthur reassures him.  “She said to tell you that she released you from caretaking duties this evening.  She has asked Jonathan Wong to look after her.”

Lovern visibly relaxes.  “Good.  No one will cross him.  We’ve all needed his expertise too frequently.”

“That’s why I didn’t mention anything earlier.”

Arthur finishes sorting the trash.  When he returns from putting the sacks in the garage he says, almost diffidently, “Do you think the South Americans are right, Lovern?”

“About the ecological crisis?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes and no.  Yes, there is a building crisis.  No, I’m not certain that athanor can do anything about it.  Individuals can alter their own behavior.”  Lovern shuts the dishwasher and sets it to run.  “Or we can surreptitiously deal with problem areas.”

Lovern pours a glass of red wine from an almost empty bottle.  Sipping it, he starts wiping off the countertops. “The problem is, humans have developed tools and weapons that have a far greater dispersal than we can quietly effect.

“Today Amphitrite spoke eloquently about the effects of ocean dumping.  What happens if we agitate to end ocean dumping and then an oil or chemical spill pollutes the same waters?  Do we try to stop shipping?”

Arthur washes his hands, all too aware of the soap (at least the brand they use is biodegradable) washing away with the dirt and grease down the drain. “I sympathize with the South Americans, but I understand what you’re saying.  I wish I knew what to command.”

Lovern finishes his wine.  “Don’t worry too much.  Tomorrow afternoon the seminars begin.  Let Jonathan talk about new advances in forgery.  Let Patti Lyn lecture on future financial planning.  Let Lil talk about the mixed blessings of investing in art and antiques.  By evening, at least half of those who are so passionate now will be worrying about whether their stock portfolios will keep them in style for another hundred years or about whether they should update their identities.  I’ve seen it happen time and again.  We are all idealists until we get down to the nuts and bolts of survival.”