In Green's Jungles (10 page)

"She's not afraid of me."

"She should be. You said that if you told your father, he would have her burned alive."

"He'd burn her himself, only she knows I won't. How did you find out?"

"From the story she told, first of all. There was an undercurrent in it, a stream of things left unsaid. Your father sensed it just as I did, though he may not have been conscious of it. He was puzzled because the little boy in the story did not go back to his family, remember?"

Mora nodded.

"We were supposed to believe he was afraid that the mother who had set out to kill him in her desperation would try to kill him again. That didn't ring true, and your father rejected it out of hand, as I did. A boy too young to know his own name could have had only the vaguest notion of his mother's intention, and would have forgotten the entire incident in a day or two. Then Fava suggested that he got away from the Vanished People, who periodically recaptured him. That was ridiculous and made the real answer obvious, as ridiculous solutions frequently do."

Mora nodded again.

"What was the real answer? I won't tell you, Mora. You have to tell me."

Tears coursed down the big, rounded cheeks. "I don't think it happened at all."

Oreb muttered, "Girl cry."

"I think Fava made it up!"

We sat in silence for some time after that. At last I said, "You have a good mind, Mora, and when someone has a good mind it can be painful not to use it."

She sobbed openly then, into her hands at first and afterward into a clean handkerchief, far too small, that she took from a pocket of her gown. When her shoulders no longer heaved, I said, "Krait, the inhumu I loved as a son, told me once that we are their cattle. It's not true, but on Green they have tried to make it true. It doesn't work very well. We milk our cattle, and butcher them when it suits us. But we don't milk them to death in our greed. Last night someone asked why I told the story I did."

"It was Fava." Mora wiped her face with her handkerchief, and when that proved ineffectual, with her sleeve. "You told it so she'd know you knew."

"I did not, because I wasn't certain then. I told it-in part, at least-to find out whether anyone else suspected Fava as I did."

Mora shook her head.

"You're right. No one did. Your expressions told me that you knew and that Fava knew you did, and that neither your father nor your grandmother, whom your friend Fava has been slowly killing, suspected her of being what we know she is."

Mora had whispered earlier. This time her voice was softer than a whisper, so soft that I cannot be certain that I heard her correctly. I believe that she was saying, "I'll be all alone now."

I tried to be as gentle as I could. "There are much worse things than being alone, Mora. You're living through one of them at this moment."

Having written that, it occurs to me that this was why the Outsider sent the leatherskin when I was alone on the sloop and prayed for company. He wished me t learn that loneliness is not the worst evil, so I might teach it to Mora.

How lonely it must be to be a god!

When Krait lay dying in the jungle, I offered my arm, telling him that he could have my blood if it would strengthen him, or even if it would just make death easier.

"I never fed from you."

"I know." My eyes were as full of tears then as poor Mora's wer this afternoon. I felt myself an utter fool.

"It would make you weak," he told me, "without making me stronger."

Then I remembered that Quetzal had been full of blood when he had been shot by Siyuf's troopers, but had died just the same about two days later.

"Do you know why we drink blood, Horn?"

"You must eat." That, at least, is what I now believe that I said, with something about the short digestive tract. I may also have said that every living creature must eat something, even if it is no more than air and sunshine. I believe I did.

"On the night we met, I drank your bus's blood."

"I remember."

"It made a beast of me until I fed again. We feed to share your lives, to feel as you feel."

"Then feed of me," I said, and I offered my arm as before.

The tips of his fingers slid along its skin, leaving thin red lines that wept tears of blood. "There's another reason. Swear. Swear now that if I tell you, you'll never tell anybody else."

I promised I would not. I am not sure now just what it was I said.

"You've got to swear…"

I leaned closer to hear him, my ear at his mouth.

"Because I have to tell you, Father, so I can die. Swear."

And I did. It was the oath that Silk had taught me aboard the airship. I will not set it down.

Krait told me, and we talked together until I understood the secret and what had happened almost twenty years ago; then Krait, seeing that I understood everything, clasped my hand and begged my blessing before he died; and I blessed him. I recall his face very clearly; it was as though Sinew himself were dying, forced by some mad god to wear a serpent mask. I saw the serpent face, but I sensed the human face behind it.

At the moment of death, it seemed to me that the mighty trees bent over Krait as I did-that he was in some sense their son as well as in some sense mine. I was conscious of their trailing lianas as female presences, wicked women in green gowns with gray and purple moths upon their brown shoulders and orchids flaming in their hair. Looking up in wonder, I saw only vines and flowers, and heard only the mournful voices of the brilliantly colored birds that glide from tree to tree; but the moment that I looked down at Krait again the green-gowned women and the brutal giants who supported them returned, mourners sharing my sorrow.

If ever you read this, Sinew, you will not believe it, I know. You have nothing but contempt for impressions at odds with what you consider simple truth. But my truth is not yours any more than your mother's is. Once I watched a mouse scurry across the floor of a room in the palace I occupied as Rajan of Gaon. To the mouse, that room with its cushions, thick carpets, and ivory-inlaid table was a wilderness, a jungle. It may be that as Krait lay dying the Outsider permitted me to share Krait's thoughts to some degree, and to see Green's jungle as Krait himself did.

To see it as our blood allowed him to see it.

That insight was never again as strong as at the moment of his death, but it never left me entirely as long as I remained on Green. You feared that jungle, I know; so did I at times. Yet what a beautiful place it was, with its capes of moss and trickling waters! The boles of the great trees stood like columns-but what architect could give us columns to stand as those trees do in their millions of millions, individual and despotic, ancient and majestic?

* * *

After writing that last, I blew out the lamp, let Oreb fly and reclosed the window, and slept for a few hours. Now it is morning. Early morning, I believe, since the shopkeeper has not yet come down. Dawn's clear, cool light fills the street outside. I would take up my staff and stroll the avenues of Blanko now if I could, but I would have to leave the shop unlocked, which would be a poor return for the owner's kindness; so I have taken up my pen instead.

Wait while I reread what I wrote last night.

There are various matters left unfinished, I see-most obviously, the letters; it was late and I was tired. Here they are. Inclito writes large, his broad-nibbed quill swooping and slashing as it lays a thick trail of jet-black ink.

Incanto, My Dear Brother-

You did not believe me when I told you I want you to stay with us. Mother says for me to urge you. Is this urging enough?

Stay with us. I say it, and so does she. She has prepared a room for you with her own hands. She will drive me mad.

So pack your things and come-

Anyone in town will bring you, or lend you a horse.

If you are not here by afternoon, I will come after you myself.

Inclito.

Fava writes a shaky scrawl, some words too distorted almost for me to make out.

To Incanto at the stationer's on Water Street

Rajan,

What I said last night is true this morning. You know me better than anyone, that is why I hate to quarrel with you. Wait outside the academy this afternoon and tell me that we are friends. I will be so happy!!! If you like, you could even ride out to Mora's with us, there is plenty of room and Inclito and Salica will be delighted, and you could reassure yourself. She is following all of your instructions, but there is no need of it. Do you understand me, Rajan?

Your loyal

friend forever,

Fava.

I have given a good deal of my conversation with Mora, but in bits and pieces; I had to do it like that because some of it was so personal (I mean, for her) that it would have been wrong for me to write it down. Just the same, it is choppier than it had to be, and there are things I should have set down that I have left out.

She said, "Grandmother goes on and on about what a miserable thing marriage is and how terrible it was for her. She's been married five times and outlived all her husbands. Papa's father wasn't even the last one. To hear her tell it, it's awful being mar ried and being widowed is worse, and I know she's saying all that because she thinks I'll never be married and she doesn't want me unhappy. But I'm unhappy anyway."

I told her, "Married couples must endure a great deal of unhappiness, Mora. So do single people. There is also a great deal of happiness in both states. That being so, what is the point of blaming the married state or the unmarried state? Or praising either one?" As I spoke, I thought of Maytera Mint; but I said nothing about her.

"I want to get married."

"Do you, Mora? Really?"

"Yes, as soon as I can. I want somebody who will love me always."

"Good girl," Oreb remarked.

"Your father and grandmother love you, but you blame them for your unhappiness."

She was silent for some time after I said that; I could see that she was thinking, and I let the silence grow.

"If I were more like the other girls, the town girls, they'd like me more."

"Or less. If you lived here in town, as they do, your size and strength, your slow speech and quick mind, and the strong, sensual face that you will possess when you are a woman would affront them at every turning. Your father likes me, and because he does, all the townsfolk treat me with respect. Would I be respected as much if I had been born three streets from here?"

She shook her head.

"You don't feel that life has treated you fairly. That is not a question. Everything you've said this morning confirms it. Your mother died while you were still an infant, I know, and that is hard, very hard. I sympathize with you deeply and sincerely because of it. But in every other respect your lot is far above the average."

"I don't think so!"

"Naturally you don't. Almost no one does. What would be fair, Mora?"

"For everyone to be even."

"Everyone is. Listen carefully, please. If you won't listen now, you may as well go. Last night someone told me that you could outrun all the other girls, that when you run races at your palaestra you always win. I suppose that it was Fava-"

"Bad thing!" (This from Oreb.)

"Who must run very poorly."

Mora said, "She doesn't run at all. There's something the matter with her legs, so she's excused."

"Are the races fair, and do you win them?"

Mora nodded.

"What makes them fair?"

"Everybody starts even."

"But some girls can run faster than the others, so they're bound to win. Don't you see how unfair that must seem to the losers? Mora, there is only one rule in life, and it applies to everyone equally-to me, to you, to all the girls at your palaestra, and even to Fava. It is that each of us is entitled to use everything we are given. Your father was given size and strength, and a good mind. He used them, as he was entitled to, and if anyone is the worse for it, he has no right to complain; your father played by the rule."

"Papa helps poor people."

"Good man!"

I nodded. "That doesn't surprise me. Some of them resent it, but he helps them anyway."

Her eyes opened a trifle wider. "How did you know that?"

"When some people are in pain, they strike out at any target within their reach, that's all. If you haven't learned it yet, you'll learn it soon. We all do."

"Have I been doing that?"

"That is for you to decide. I have been a judge, Mora, but I am not a judge here. Before I talk to you seriously-and I have serious things to say to you-I want you to consider this: Suppose that instead of being as you are, you were the small and pretty girl whom Fava appears to be. Don't you think it's possible that your father might doubt that you were really his? And that your life would be a great deal less happy if he did?"

She was silent again, the large, plump hands motionless in her lap, her head bowed. At last she said, "I never thought of it."

"You will think about it now, I know."

To say what I wanted to say next was to risk the life of the girl before me, and I knew it; I waited until I felt certain I could suppress the tremor in my voice.

"Mora, I used to know a woman named Scleroderma. She was quite short. You are already much taller than she was. She was also fat, a great deal fatter than you are, and not at all good-looking. People made jokes about her, and she laughed the loudest at them, and made jokes about herself-about others, too, to tell you the truth. All of us thought that she was very funny, and most of us liked her and felt a little superior to her."

"I'd feel sorry for her," Mora said.

"Perhaps you would. War came, and Scleroderma acquired a needler. I don't know how, and it doesn't matter. She did. And when we who had lived in the Sun Street Quarter had to fight, Scleroderma fought like a trooper. It isn't good for a trooper to be over forty, or short, or fat. It isn't good at all, and she was all of those things; but she fought like a trooper just the same."