The Farpool (52 page)

Chase heard Pakma’s voice on his echopod.
“The water is so still,” she said.

Kloosee agreed. “It must be the shape of the
chamber…pulse how it damps out any currents.” He thrashed an armfin
to disturb the water. Sure enough, the waves died out in seconds.
The chamber crossing was designed to maintain an imperturbable
tranquility.

Indeed, the Pillars pulsed much like a
womb. Pakma was the first to notice that and say it. All her life,
Pakma had heard stories from pilgrims about the serenity of the
place, the warmth, the concord, the strong bond of
Ke’shoo
that it made with all
comers. Nothing was unaffected. That explained the constricted
spaces and the pleasant scents: the
mekli
had re-created the ancient womb of the
cave cities here. Like Old Kengtoo, they had preserved in sharp
redolence the scents of the first days, down to the most ethereal
details. The Pillars mirrored and embodied the timeless aspirations
of all Seomish:
Ke’shoo
and
Ke’lee
and
Shoo’kel
, the inward eye blind to
anything beyond the immediate concerns of family and
kel.

Their
mekli
guard detail herded them on, through one
maze after another, indifferent to the discomforts of the trek. The
lead priestess could be heard swooshing well ahead of them, leading
them deeper and deeper into the Pillars, into the Quarter of
Melodies, where the shape of the caves altered the quality of their
sound. There seemed to Chase to be no meter to it, only the vaguest
sort of melancholy, yet the water whispered with definite musical
tones.
Wonder what the Croc Boys would
make of this place as a venue
? he thought. The tunnels
had now widened the deeper they went into the Pillars, making it
easier for him to keep up with everybody else.

They traveled an endless and confusing course
through the tunnels; all the time, it seemed to Chase, they were
ascending. On occasion, the faintest, fleeting tinkle of notes
rippled by them, like delicate chimes being gently tapped. There
would be voices too, or what seemed like voices, whispers just
beyond hearing, though Chase sometimes thought it was no more than
the ever-present swish of the water. They were herded through
fairly large caverns as they ascended, caverns dimly lit with
glowfish and among the shadows, Chase could make out faces:
forlorn, sepulchral, and weary.

“Pilgrims, resting after their journey here,”
Kloosee told him.

Through narrow tunnels and rock-hewn
chambers, the guards and the convoy followed the
mekli
. Kloosee knew well that the
Pillars of Shooki did not stop at the surface; they extended well
beyond, far into the Notwater. They were still ascending, traveling
the convoluted labyrinth of corridors, occasionally coming upon
larger caves and crypts, and he wondered. How far would they
go?

Tradition had always said the Judging
Chambers were near the pinnacle of the Pillars.

The
mekli
brought them to the edge of a cliff, at
the end of one of the tunnels. Even as they approached, they could
pulse through the opening that the cavern beyond was deep and wide,
and filled with fast-rising columns of water. It was at the core of
one of the Pillars, hollow from its bedrock foundations to its
majestic pinnacle high above the surface.

The
mekli
priestess then lunged from the cliff and
caught one of the streams. It whisked her away from the opening and
carried her upward. She soon vanished beyond an overhanging
ledge.

Prodded by the guards, one by one, the Ponkti
and the Omtorish captives launched themselves into the midst of the
currents.

The water was both brisk and exhilarating. It
carried them rapidly along, past other landings and portals,
sweeping them toward the summit of the Pillar. Kloosee and Pakma
both tried pulsing in the direction they were heading—seven full
beats later, the first echoes returned. A tiny ring of white light
capped the heights.

The
mekli
was somewhere above them, no more than a
blip in the pulse. Her tail was dimly silhouetted against the
brighter background. Below them, the trunk of the cavern spread out
into the vast hills from which the Pillars had been formed. The
walls beneath the bottommost shelf of landings widened to an
immense grotto, the floor of which was covered in exquisitely
sculpted stalagmites.

But as they rose further, the radiance from
the top washed out all other detail.

A blinding white blaze enveloped
them.
The light of Notwater
,
Kloosee realized. Painful, penetrating, it cascaded down and
streaked the water with shafts of luminous blue-green. Kloosee
clutched at his eyes; Chase did likewise. They throbbed from the
exposure and he found they were useless. Opening them, he saw only
a shimmering glow.

He pulsed and found the top of the tower
near, a beat or so away. Even as he tried to sort out the confusing
echoes, the lifting current slacked off and they drifted aimlessly
for a minute, barely touched by the fringe of the current. Other
currents dispersed here too; it was a gathering point for entry to
the Echopods.

Another tunnel, this one smooth like a
pipe, bent around in a wide sweeping curve. They were wriggling
straight up and the waters murmured to them with a mischievous
stealth. Voices, hushed and furtive, sprinkled the pauses in their
own swishing. The tunnel straightened, leveled out and the
mekli
slowed down, whispering for
silence from the captives and guards. Now the voices were clearer,
sharper.
The Echopods.
Distinct accents. Inflections. Someone trilling, arguing. A
bass reply, deep and ponderous. An aria. A flurry of oratory, crisp
and pointed.

The passageway widened abruptly and suddenly,
the voices were everywhere, swelling in unison, falling away,
crackling and whistling, a chorus softly floating. In the next
moment, the chorus faded and the voices rose again in argument,
thousands of them, strident yet gentle, firmly commanding,
clashing, conflicting, filling the Chamber with incessant chatter.
Kloosee felt Chase and Pakma bump him behind. He opened his
eyes.

The glow was dazzling, resplendent in
shades of amber, gray and white.
It is
Notwater
, Kloosee breathed. The light streamed into
the Chamber from all sides, as if the water itself were ablaze.
Despite the intensity, Kloosee held his eyes open to see and
wonder.

The Chamber itself was oblong. Panels
of some transparent substance wrapped the walls. The floor was
arrayed with rows of cells, each of which contained one echopod.
More cells lined the walls between the panels. Open holdpods swayed
from the ceiling, their bowls carrying scentbulbs.
Om’pshoo
was the scent
predominating, aromatic and sweet. That brought a smile to Pakma.
She had worked with this scent before. The waters were
litor’kel
and
shoo’kel
, and the Voice of the Echopods
steadfast. Shooki’s Voice.

But it was what he saw through the
transparent walls that made Kloosee tremble.

They were now above the surface, in this
Chamber of Echopods, thrust like a sharp blade right into the very
heart of the Notwater. Though the glow of the day was fierce,
Kloosee blinked in amazement at the view. Even Chase seemed
speechless at the sight before them. Beside them, Pakma and other
Omtorish and Ponkti stared in mute fascination. Kloosee had seen
Notwater before, the first time was the Circling, when as a midling
he had made the great voyage of passage and snuck up to the surface
for a peek. He thought himself accustomed to its mutable and
marvelous scenery. But this—the Pillars of Shooki revealed aspects
of that dry and harsh world he could never have imagined.

All about the Pillars, the bleak and desolate
white of the polar icecap stretched to infinity. A solid flat
plate, littered with mounds and hillocks and wind-shaped edges,
frozen and silent. Above, a hoary sheet of gray clouds scudded by.
Kloosee gasped at the sight while Pakma gouged at her eyes.
Something moved. The hillocks had legs—a head—a spiked tail—

“Puk’lek
,”
Pakma whispered.

It was true. The entire convoy stared in
wonder as hundreds of seamothers, half-buried in snow, reared
themselves and shook the powder off their backs. As one, they
marched past the Pillars, honking, bellowing loudly, heading for a
fissure in the ice on the other side of the Pillars. It was
half-hidden by the snow-dusted bulk of the towers, but even so, the
beasts could be seen waddling into the frigid blue waters,
wallowing for a few minutes, then submerging in a spray of
foam.

There were now several
mekli
in the Chamber, along with the
guards. The
mekli
were
attending the Echopods, listening, arguing their interpretations of
the Voice. All the pods seemed active together and the sayings,
parables and utterances of
pak’to
Shooki were at once both confusing and reassuring. Their
own
mekli
beckoned them
deeper into the Chamber and slowly, prodded by the guards, they
complied.

“This is the Judging Chamber,” she told
them. “Listen to the Voice. The Voice will soothe you. Let it enter
you and fill you with the right
shoo’kel
. The waters of this Chamber are the
standard.
Shoo’kel
here is
correct for all kelke, everywhere in the world. Now, speak the
truth to me…why have you come to the Pillars and disturbed these
waters with violence in your hearts?”

The Ponkti spokesman was called Poklu
lin, a muscular fellow, with scars along his face and beak.
“
Ke’mekli,
I am free-bound to
Loptoheen tu,
tuk
master
and
tekmetah
to Lektereenah,
Metah of Ponk’et. We have a simple mission: we were commanded to
intercept any attempt by Omtorish kelke to negotiate and work with
the Tailless…the Umans at Kinlok. We heard this group coming—“ he
indicated Kloosee and the rest of the Omtorish “—so we engaged
them.”

Kloosee spoke up, without permission.
“We have a right to talk with who we want…the Uman machine
threatens everybody…we’re offering a way to move the machine
elsewhere, so it doesn’t disturb our kels…
all
our kels,” he emphasized, glaring back at
Poklu.

Poklu was ready to respond, but
the
mekli
held up her hands.
“Talk no more. Listen to the Voice, instead.”

Poklu held his tongue.
“
Ke’mekli
, what does the
Voice say? We can’t hear it here.” He glared at Kloosee with
scarcely disguised contempt. “There’s too much noise.”

“O’ my
loo’sheen
, the most wondrous things.” The
mekli
pulsed with radiance. “It
speaks of love and
shoo’kel,
the balance of all seas. Of
Ke’shoo
and
Ke’lee
and every virtue. The
Vish
currents and destiny. The Dialogues. The
reciting of charms and beatitudes. The
Be’shoo’keen
of principal ecstasies. The Voice
is profound and fluent, for truth is like Seome itself,
inexhaustible and imperishable.”

Kloosee wanted to press home his point.
“Seome is in danger,
ke’mekli
. Even Poklu can’t deny that. The Ponkti
even have a word for it:
akloosh
. That’s what we face from the Tailless,
the aliens, if we can’t convince them…and help them move their
machine.”

Poklu exploded in fury. “Who says the
Omtorish are the only ones who can help—“

Kloosee came back. “Your soundshield failed.
Your own agents sabotaged it—“

Poklu made to lunge at Kloosee but
stopped when he saw the
mekli
produce a sound grenade in her hands. “Omt’or can’t
monopolize the Farpool,
ke’mekli
. The Umans know things. The Omtorish
want to keep that knowledge to themselves…it’s always been like
this. Keep the Ponkti in their caves…keep them ignorant. Now, the
other kels have a chance…it’s not just Ponk’et. The Sk’ork, the
Eep’kostic…they think as we do. Let—“

But the
mekli
would listen to no more argument. “You’ve
both infected the sacred waters. The Voice speaks, even now.
Judgment is made…there is no alternative, no middle ground here.
Both sides must be consumed…”

Before Kloosee could answer,
another
mekli
intervened, a
younger one. She darted forward into the center of the gathering
and waved her armfins abruptly, scattering those nearest to her. A
few scowled indignantly and sulked at the interruption, but
this
mekli
had prevailed, had
heard the Voice more clearly, and assumed the right to address
them. She extended herself to full length—she was graced with the
most supple of skins, a polished veneer of milky gray that shone
like porcelain in the brilliance of the Notwater light. Kloosee
pulsed her and envied her self-control.