E A T E R
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By Pinlighter
Eight miles above the Land, Khresten looks out
into the night through one of the Eyes of the
tower.
The oval screen before her shows a low hill in
the middle of a barren plain. The scale bars
indicate that it is about two furlongs in height
and two miles wide. Set atop it is a knotted
complex of rock strands, from which a twisting,
iridescent stream of many-colored radiance
fountains upward into the everlasting darkness.
Glints of vulcanism drain away to the right, but
beyond it and to the left there is no light at all
and the enhancement routines of the Eye have
sketched the naked surface of the Land in symbolic
no-color contours as a random jumble of basalt
tesserae in low relief.
There is no vegetation nearby, no physical
structures of any sort, and no visible movement of
beasts or giants. The lesser entities of the Land
do not come near. In the ancient records this
many-hued blur, dancing in the eternal night sixty
leagues to the south-west of the Redoubt, is named
The Rainbow That Dies.
Once more she applies herself. Quietening her
breath. Humbling, stilling, and opening her mind.
The continual fear is under control, nothing is
reaching at her mind from out of the Land, and all
thoughts of success or failure, of gaining
acceptance in her guild, have been banished to
irrelevance. She strives only to be part of the
machine that scans the night.
Something touches her, inside her eyes.
She cannot sense into the upper dark, but the
lower levels are truely open, and the screen
becomes clear, detailed, reflecting her mind. The
more subtle sight interfaces with the electronics
as easily as it does with the organic nerves,
delivering information that the computers of the
Tower may glut themselves on or a mindblind
co-observer may share if only instrument and
operator are in harmony. It is an ancient trick of
the Monstruwacans.
The images of six black tubes appear on the
screen, drawn from her mind to overlay the barren
dark. Their roots are spaced symmetrically about
the gush of the Rainbow, and they flow upward,
swaying, to open in monstrous flowers of night
that fray upwards into nothing. Complex structures
writhe within them. Peristaltic narrowings pump
plasma skeins up and away from the Land, up to the
region where the eyes of her soul refuse to
construct more lies to overlay the glass and
silicon grid before her with a thousand different
shades of black. Each dark Flower is about a mile
in height, and above the two-hundred fathom level
the stalks show some of the typical dendritic
character of the pneumavores, branching and
rebranching into hard black points. Some of these
points wave free, searching. Others are buried
avidly in the central bright stream.
All is stable, and the Eye screen is delivering
data at an optimum rate for the machines, but the
human Monstruwacans who stand around her also
require to know what is passing in the mind of
their seer. Khresten begins her verbal subjective
log.
"Six shapes, like flowers, grow from the Land.
Each is .. thrice the height of the Rainbow."
Are they rooted? Of long residence?
"An air of permanence surrounds them. A year at
least. Yet they are not fixed - they are cyclic -
they are growing - they waver and change."
Are they Eaters?
". . . not of us. Of the Rainbow. That is why it
is dying. Now they wait . . . "
What do they wait for?
". . . for something from above, Senior. They
are waiting . . "
. . . to welcome it, she realises suddenly and
says. That is a knowledge that could never be
relayed through the screen, but to her it is
obvious, immanent.
Once more she feels the insect-touch on her
retinae, and though she knows the danger she opens
herself furthur. They are not conscious of me.
The screen is suddenly full of detail. The
entities of the night come into a sharper focus.
Each stalk is a braded, forking, writhing, column
of darkness. Tiny motes of unlight stream up and
down, pulsing irregular blobs carrying what might
be dissolved shreds of their prey, checking and
stumbling as they collide with each other. The
Flowers are milking the Rainbow, building and
strengthening themselves from its flesh, which
they suck in and consume through pores that open
and close on the tips of the dark branches. They
are Eating it. It writhes from one side to the
other, from one scourge to another, pierced,
trapped, hooked, bled, and its essence diffusses
away into the thorned webs of darkness. It is
slowly growing weaker and smaller, though it seems
still to try to fight its way upwards as its
tormentors continue to grow larger and more
extended.
The interface between the distant entities
adsorbs Khresten's attention entirely, and a sense
of the most awful pain, of the diminishment of
that far bright being, overwhelmes her. Her mind
opens yet furthur. Despite all warnings and
despite all her discipline she begins to lose
touch with her own body as her center shifts
towards the radiant agony, and she feels herself
flowing out into the Night on a slow tide of
nausea.
The glutted Flowers become clearly visible as
pulsing fractals of black on black, their faces
now tilting inward to form a cup, a web, a tangle
or nest. They are connecting to each other, fusing
together into a complex of threads that moves and
links and breaks, not fully symmetrical, but
somehow . . . wet.
And something new is beginning. The Flowers are
not alone.
Something is descending out of the night.
Threads of sentience fall from the upper dark, and
here and there they touch the Land and dissolve to
nothing, each returning a racing pulse of
information which, in her heightened state, she
feels as if it fled along her own nerves.
She cannot sense them until they flash: she
cannot follow them back to their source: she knows
them only by their echo, by the hollow in the
night they leave as they vanish.
The threads fall around her and on her, each
bringing a spark of unknowable otherness, and her
soul reports each touch.
Again. And again.
Gripping, gripping as hard as she can, she is
slipping from her points of anchorage. The Tower
is tiny and distant, a complex clutter far behind
her atop the vast pyramid of shielded life that is
the Redoubt. A deep cold surrounds her, a physical
sensation like freezing currents of wind, overlaid
by the knowledge of ravenous things awakening and
approaching. She has gone too far, been too
trusting, made foolish errors lethal for a seer,
and her immaterial spirit is losing its connection
with her flesh and drifting helplessly, out into
the Night Land.
I am lost.
But her body, tiny and far from her as a distant
doll, still obeys her. With the faraway
puppet-eyes of her flesh she can see that the
Rainbow is now totally confined, nearly consumed,
a smear of light with a thin pulse of despair
echoing out from it. She babbles something as she
closes her eyes, closes her mind, and releases the
gesture of Guard, brushing against the light beams
which interthread her fingers for this very
purpose. Instantly the ravening electronic shields
of the Tower flash into being round her. The room
roars as the primary V-pulse fills the walls, the
cybernetic memories are blanked with ruthless
overriding authority, the screen glares white,
then true black, and she falls back trembling in
the chair as her returning soul snaps into union
with her body.
Not too late. And from the eyes of the grave men
and women who surround her, from their voices and
hands, from their mind-touch, their speiking, she
knows of nothing but affirmation, love and
support.
*****************
The recovery, the interrogation, the report, are
over. With her chaperone, apprentice Khresten
descends towards the Redoubt and her home city
within it. But she is still pale and shaken, still
unstrung, her knees as melting wax, and the older
woman must half support her as they ride down the
central well of the tower.
When they are alone and there is no risk of
indignity Khresten huddles against her companion.
Let us go down quickly, quickly, she does
not say. She blanks her mind, and thinks of home
and her younger sisters. A ghost-ache traces the
length of her spinal cord and her major nerve
trunks, slowly fading as her errant Spirit knits
itself back into her flesh. The tall old woman
whispers to her and reminds her to be brave.
They fall two hundred fathoms, past level after
level of active and passive observation systems -
radar, optical, sonar, mindset - past datastores,
libraries and power nodes, administrative clusters
and support systems. Most of the levels are
temporarily shut up and dead. Some are sealed and
Forbidden. Others are in use, brightly lit, filled
with tangles of enigmatic equipment and moving
figures. Day and night, the Monstruwacans
interrogate the Land.
They reach the tower's foundation. Below this is
the truncated roof of the pyramidal Redoubt
proper, three fathoms thick of imperishable metal,
quick with subtle fires. But the Tower and the
Redoubt are sealed from each other, and they must
descend on their own feet, breathing with the aid
of air-bells, past the final blanks that insulate
the Tower and deny any infection entry to the
Redoubt.
No dangerous path is permitted. No
communications link, no optical fibre, no
microwave beam, no quantum pair, may connect the
last refuge of humanity with the observatory of
the Monstruwacans that looks outward on the Land.
Only human beings and written records ever make
the passage.
They descend, wading the horizontal Air Clog.
They give up the Word. They enter into the safety
and the peace.
*****************
A day has passed, a night has begun. Far below
the Tower, deep within the Lower Cities, in the
womb of the Redoubt, in her home, in her house, in
her bed, Khresten dreams.
Sleep-time in the Four Hundred and Third city
breathes round her. Her two younger sisters sigh
quietly, sleeping, a fathom or so away from her in
the same room where she lies. Their minds brighten
and dim in a slow rhythym, moving between REM
dream and profound theta passivity. In the next
chamber the minds of her mother and father are dim
red coals radiating a quiet animal warmth. There
is a whisper of fluttering fabric strips in the
ventilator. A gentle radiance flickers over the
walls, too soft to awaken the inhabitants, for in
this age no-one ever utterly darkens a room or
sleeps alone unless they must.
Khresten dreams that she wakes, that she dresses
and walks out of the room. Obedient to an impulse
she refuses to acknowledge she leaves her house
and makes her way to the public viewing galleries
- never empty at any time. She enters and takes a
seat well separated from the others, as is her
custom.
Before them, with dream-logic, is her screen
from the Tower, now somehow grown to the typical
dimensions of a viewing gallery. But all is safe
now. The monstrous threats of the Land that press
inward upon her with a thousand attentions every
instant that she is at her duty are absent from
this place. She thinks. We have disarmed them:
we can study them in peace.
Her screen is once more showing the Flowers
tormenting the Rainbow. She strokes the machinery
with her mind and tries to interface with it, but
there is no engagement. And she understands that
all that is past. The Flowers are now just one
more of the shows - she thinks with faint scorn -
the shows, the bogeys, the harmless pictures from
the Land that can be used to entertain the
half-blind, half-deaf, other people of the
Redoubt.
In the audience that surrounds her stupid pity
replaces stupid fear as the Flowers consume their
prey. The Rainbow is so clearly in agony, so
clearly having its very substance sucked away.
Unconscious of their own emotional radiations and
yet affected by them, the viewers stir helplessly,
and one woman, perhaps an undetected and untrained
partial Sensitive, has the bad taste to
telepathically spiek her feelings in uncontrolled
verbalised form. With practiced patience, Khresten
guards her scorn, but behind her she feels another
consciousness flick in sympathy with hers . . . as
now once more the expected climax arrives. The
Rainbow withers, fades, and dies, reducing to a
blurred nub of mist. The Flowers join together
into a single organism, a single intermeshed cup,
opening upward.
In silence the other patrons leave. All except
that one behind her.
But she is distracted by the screen. The slow
fall out of the Night is beginning, and now she
will be able to study it safely beyond the point
where she was forced to retreat. The shapes stir
in the blackness and then become tense and still.
She tries to watch, but the threads falling from
the upper dark are scarcely visible. It is
hopelessly frustrating: there is no contact, no
feedback, no touch. And she finds herself
straining toward the screen and trying to affect
it. Her throat constricts. She can see so little
but still she can tell that the threads are
falling closer and closer to the Flowers.
Something is happening.
And now one thread finds, touches, fuses, with
the Flowers and this thread does not break, but
connects avidly, thickens, plumps . . . . her
hands fall into her lap and her palms press into
her flesh as the Flowers and the Thread fuse with
astonishing violent rapidity into a single thing;
a round solid-seeming mass, fat and satiated,
settling in on itself, straddling the shreds of
the Rainbow that yet remain.
A shock passes through her. Her breastbone
quivers.
She awakens.
As she does it comes to her again that there was
someone near her in the gallery, regarding her and
understanding her .
Another Sensitive? Khresten thinks. Then
the dream recedes. Half-sleeping she comes to the
understanding that it was only a dream, that she
is safe in her bed. And it was folly of course: it
would be Forbidden to duplicate the more subtle
and dangerous achievements of the Tower down here.
To prevent the creation of a path the galleries of
the Redoubt may amplify only visible light . . . .
She lies awake for a short time, then sighs, and
thinks of other things, and passes to other and
unremembered dreams.
*****************
Another day. There is no work for her to do in
the times set aside for her recovery. But of
course there are the children to care for and to
teach.
Watch, little sisters. This is how it is
done. She bares her arms and throat, and
very carefully and exactly dabs a spot of doped
nectar on each pulse point. Then she recaps the
vials and sits completely still, not to ring her
tinkling tinsel jewelery, while while the heat of
her flesh sends pheromones and molecules of
glucose adrift through the room.
Magically, jhenna and jhenni drift out of their
open cage door, circle and flutter, and settle to
feed, perched on her parallel upturned wrists. Her
two sisters laugh with delight as their pet
butterflies flirt their wings, showing comical
eye-spots like perpetually amazed and outraged
faces.
Hush, hush, don't frighten them. There
is one drop on the hot artery at the base of each
thumb, and she has judged the quantities there
exactly right, because the two insects take wing
again at almost the same time. They flit round her
and then resettle on the smaller traces she has
left inside each of her elbows, in the hollow next
to the big sinew: a sourer blend of frutcose and a
little vinegar with a different chemical messenger
blended in. Again they sip, and again, almost
together, they fly away. Perfect.
She sits even more absolutely still now, chin
high, smiling. Even her hair must not move, for
the third smear is in the tender groove to each
side of her larynx, half-brushed by its fall. But
only jhenna wants this: her wings tickle
Khresten's throat, while mischevious jhenni flys
away to investigate the room.
The little girls chase him. Don't grab,
don't grab. Mnemmne the elder catches jhenni
at last, persuading him to perch on her own
much-daubed hand.
"Make him spread his wings again, Khresten. What
is he thinking?"
I cannot do that with just my mind. Give him
something sweet, sweetheart. Look, how he loves
you.
"Why did you send the gold butterflies back to
that man? They were lovely, I would have liked to
play with them too."
You will understand that when you are older,
little sister.
The younger sister waits frustrated, beginning
to be angry, so Khresten gives jhenna over to her
and sits down quietly. The two little girls coo
over feeding their pets for a while and get
distracted, as usual. Then they let the
butterflies free and huddle up on her lap, two
sticky little messes of syrup, squashing her, to
the furthur ruin of her thin housegown.
Three more days left. Then she must return to
her duty, in the heights above.
*****************
The Tower, again: questions.
"I dreamt of it. Of the Rainbow and the Flowers.
That may affect my perception, Senior"
Not when you are linked to the machines. Are
you afraid?
"Yes, I am afraid."
Good. You have had seven days rest. Are you
ready?
"Yes, Senior."
The Rainbow chokes and dies, again and
again. The Flowers Eat it. Why? What comes from
above?
"What is the Rainbow, Senior?"
Perhaps one of the allies. It survives cycle
after cycle of this. But most likely, another
unknown.
Begin now, apprentice.
Khresten bows her head, binds the sensors in
position, and carefully takes the required
conformations with her hands. Each member of the
team checks off in turn. All is ready.
Once more she fuses with the Eye and looks out.
Below her the Air Clog, the force field that is
the first layer of defence, bells out from the
foot of the tower down to its anchorage in the
radiant circle which surrounds the Redoubt at
ground level, miles below. The minds of the
Watchers strike against it like furlong-thick bars
of metal, but she slips between those bars and
turns her regard outward. Though neither her body
nor her soul change position her focus of
attention flits swiftly, carried by the machine,
away from the ancient knot of forces centered on
the Redoubt, past and over the South-West Watcher,
past the Road, over leagues and leagues of
blackness, to where the Rainbow writhes and
flickers.
The Flowers are present again, but they are
tiny. A cool mindpressure from the log-monitoring
cyberneticist informs her changed position
and she sees at once that these are successor
entities. They are growing in slightly different
positions, more widely spaced and shifted slightly
clockwise, though still symmetrically surrounding
the Rainbow. And these Flowers are not yet flowers
but only unbranched stalks, writhing slowly as
they grow, stretching upward for a minute and then
shrinking in a slow rythyhm.
It is early in the cycle. The Rainbow is hardly
affected. It still flows smoothly upward.
She watches for two hours while the Flowers
continue to grow very slowly. At the end of this
period she requests a rest, and the team pause to
discuss what they have been seeing. They agree to
wait five hours and then resume. They have now
recorded the cycle in detail at two points, and
the important thing, they concur, is to see what
follows the growth of the Flowers to their maximum
size and their fusion into a single entity.
When Khresten returns to her duty the Flowers
are just opening. They bob and dip grotesquely,
each black mouth in turn plunging into the flesh
of the Rainbow and absorbing a quantum of its
being. A different technique of feeding, which
Khresten notes and describes. . . how quickly
I become used to this. This session is
shorter. On a simple extrapolation it will be at
least twelve hours before the Flowers reach their
full height again.
Since there is no point in taking the risk of
continuous mental observation, two of the other
apprentices monitor the Rainbow using only visible
light, while the shields go up on low power and
Khresten rests.
They call her back when the Rainbow is again
guttering down towards extinction. She bows,
embraces the metal, and forms for them again a
picture of the avid barbed networks consuming the
stream of light. But this time she is more
careful. Practiced, prudent, she refuses to be
lured forth, but watches safely as the Rainbow
dies and the flowers fuse once more into a single
mesh.
The tangled Flowers become absolutely still and
tense, waiting. Now the fall of the threads from
above begins. Confined within the Tower she is
only just able to detect them but she successfully
resists the dangerous urge to see more. The
half-seen threads fall closer and closer to the
Rainbow, unseeable till they make contact with the
surface of the Land, apparently blind, groping,
searching, scattering at random without system or
logic, until at last and not perceived until it
has already happened one has touched the Flowers.
Something like a dark lightening bolt slides
down it. The Flowers quiver, seemingly in shock,
and fall together into a single globe. She
startles.
Once more the shields cut in and the cybernetics
zeroes all data. She apologises to her team, but
what she knows cannot tell them. It startled
me because I dreamt it. I dreamt this happening.
But surely not.
No, it was not exactly the same.
To reset the shields with a proper delicacy will
take almost an hour. As the apprentices go about
it she relaxes, falls back in the chair - and
becomes aware that someone is looking at her:
looking at her. She unthinkingly jumps to
correct her immodest posture, then stops and casts
her eyes and her mind about the room in great
anger. Who? But it was not the Senior, not
any one of the grave older men. And it was not any
one of the young men, all apprentices like her but
not sensitives, not gifted with the Night-hearing,
who are utterly absorbed in the matters of their
Technos.
Her flowering rage that Eve-teasing should
interfere here, of all places, falls away
as she scans their minds and sees that there is
no-one who it could have been, no-one at all.
She was mistaken.
This is really my home, she thinks.
Absurd. But here . . . no polite, suitable young
men trying to please, while their parents talk
formally in the next room. No little poems about
the beauty of instep or wrist. No strangers
glancing at her, unconscious that their
under-minds are rehearsing a rape. No passers-by
reimagining her into a stupid naked popsy and
tucking her away to dance behind their eyelids
while they milk themselves in the night.
I will never marry. This is the better life.
But such thoughts belong to the Redoubt, not the
Tower.
She directs the Eye towards the face of the
South-West Watcher and contemplates It, as calmly
as possible, not fighting fear, for twenty
minutes. It is a much-practiced penance or
exercise though not one usually carried out
through such an amplifier. Her coworkers
understand and allow their minds to subtlely
support hers, without questioning her reasons,
until she is satisfied that the gaze of the
Monster has burned all the littleness out of her.
*****************
Calm again, she confronts the Night.
Her focus of attention moves out from the tower
to where the lingering ghost of the Rainbow swirls
and then halts, aghast, at the monstrous globe of
darkness that now squats above the remaining shred
of light. It has grown beyond all proportion. It
is rooted on the six stalks that were the Flowers,
their tips spreading like trees or veins to form
multiple points of attachment or support. Its
surface seems hard, rigid, almost opaque, utterly
beyond any penetration by her. It does not move.
Something is inside it. There is the merest hint
of stirring life.
She watches for two hours more but nothing seems
to happen.
At last she retires.
The cycle, they agree, is not finished. From the
stalks to the Flowers, from the Flowers to the
tangled cup, and from that, fusing with some
influence from the deeps of night, to the globe,
nearly a mile wide, multi-rooted, hovering above
the Land. If the Rainbow follows the cycle as it
has done for seven years it will pour forth again
in full power in less than three days more. In the
intervening period, therefore, something must
happen to the globe.
She is exhausted. It is agreed she will descend
to her home and rest for one full day. After that,
they hope to witness the final mutation.
*****************
Coming home earlier than she had expected, safe
again within the gates of her own City, Khresten
dismisses her chaperone and walks abroad through
the streets. She always dresses as anonymously as
possible, affects the veil in public as many women
do, and once she has taken off the shoes which one
wears only for journeys outcity there is nothing
to mark her. Few ever recognise her as a Sensitive
and one of the apprentice Monstruwacans.
Busy people move to and fro. The buzzing hive of
life surrounds her, and the pad of a million bare
feet. Though she was warned years ago that the
teaching and the exercises of the Tower would
continue to increase her sensitivity beyond
bearing, she is shocked again by the noise.
The uncontrolled mental radiations of the
inhabitants overwhelm her and though she screws
her mind as tightly shut as possible she cannot go
on. Regretfully she modifies her path and avoids
the most crowded public areas. Ten days ago my
soul was naked in the Land. And can I not endure
the Agora of my own home city? Apparently,
she cannot.
*****************
That night she dreams again. She walks though
the quiet nighttime streets visiting the scenes of
her youth: the school, the places where she would
meet her playmates, the library, the playgrounds.
All those friends are separated from her now, all
gone their separate ways and some married already.
She walks slowly. Alone she wanders down the long
corridors past the statues, past the open public
gardens and malls.
Midnight passes, and forty miles below, deep in
the Underground Countries, a continent of spices
exhales. For joy and for pleasure, the Windmasters
bring its breath to the Pyramid, and a cool
scented breeze blows from the vents. It is
jasmineday.
A few other people are abroad and now she must
follow them back to the viewing gallery. The
Flowers are there. But she has seen this already.
She speaks to her waiting friend.
It is an old story. Really, these shows are
for fools . . . I come here because I am one of
those who looks out on the Land and discovers
these things, I suppose. No, these are not bad
people. Very few of them are weak or cruel. But
they are so blind, so stupid.
You are a stranger here? On your wanderjahr?
I do not need to see this again. I will return
home now, but I will show you what I can of the
city, on the way. That is right, to a stranger.
You will only have a short time here.
Let us leave the gallery. No, you must not
walk beside me! You, a man and a stranger here!
Walk to one side and a little behind me, at a
proper distance.
So. Here is the Four-hundreth-third city,
named Blaise. What would you see?
Every House shows a different face. And they
are all different behind their masks as well.
Most are tens of thousands of years old, and
each holds a clan of many families and an
hundred old stories. They are private to their
owners. I have visited only a few Houses, the
Houses of my friends, and they were very
different from my own home and from each other.
In that one lives the magistrate: it is not
especially marked out, for the position is not
hereditary. He is the magistrate for this year
only, they are not well pleased with him.
Our lamps are very beautiful, are they not?
We can do a thousand things with light. Harsh
light, soft light, warm or cold light, calming
or enraging, loving or hating. Our Lampmakers
make them, and they are famous for it. Of course
their best work illuminates this or that great
and important public place, not in the open
street. We send some of our best lamps to the
other cities.
There is little machinery here in the lower
cities: no fires, no furnaces, nothing loud or
hot. How would we breath? Our own body heat is
enough to strain the lungs of the Redoubt. We
make few things, so we must make them to last
ten thousand years.
Look at this tile beneath my foot. The glyph
marks the spot of a murder two hundred years
past. That is a most notable memorial, but you
can see that each stone once carried a message,
though most of them are worn to nothing. Every
stone and every wallplate in this city has a
story written on it, they say. The ones that are
blank are simply those that have been cleaned by
time.
And see how many fountains we have in the
streets? And the trees? Come past here. When I
was very young, this one, here, was the
darling-tree of my girl-band. Tllellalu
is his name. We watered him, talleyed his
leaves, cleaned him of rust or blackrot,
celebrated the first flower that blossomed each
year. I see the younger bands are taking good
care of him. Goodbye, Tllellalu.
The great pillars support the core of the
upper Cities: no doubt you have the same in your
own home. Half the lower pyramid is solid metal
by volume, they tell us.
The Library. I spent so much time here when I
was young. Dreaming. How I wanted to be a hero,
and explore the Land. Half the young people do,
I suppose. I read story after story. All that is
a fantasy, of course, as you come to understand
when you grow up: only the insane go. And anyway
it is Forbidden for women. But I had the
Night-hearing - strongly enough to be trained -
and that decided my future.
So now I explore the Land in a different way.
I have been a seer for the Monstruwacans for two
years. No-one remains a seer for very long
because the strain is so great. In two more
years my time will be over and I will have a
choice, to stay with the guild, or return here
to join another guild, or marry, or do some
other thing. But if they will have me, I shall
stay with the Monstruwacans, and that shall be
my life.
This is a duello ground. It is deserted now
but even so it is not polite for us to linger
here and gawp.
Here is my home. Our whole clan lives here in
the separate houses, all within the wall. My
mother and father and my sisters: that is our
family. And my parents' male cousins and their
wives, and the elders of the previous
generation.
I will not be living with my parents much
longer, I think. I will live in a separate
house, but still within our House.
Goodbye, then.
*****************
Khresten wakes sleepy and lazy. For once she
feels properly rested and happy. She hums as she
stretches, and catches the eyes of her youngest
sister as that one tiptoes out of the room.
The girl has been told many times by everyone Let
your sister rest and told Do not be
noisy while Khresten sleeps in the morning
and now she makes a face of exaggerated virtue and
patience, mincing out with her finger to her lips
and her hips wigwagging. Obviously someone needs
to be taught a lesson.
Khresten leaps on her intending to provide
instruction, but is fatally surprised when Mnemmne
attacks her from behind: the three of them roll
over and over in a tangle. Panting, laughing, she
pins both of them down at last and tickles them
very soundly while they scream and laugh and
struggle.
Wai! Wai! She threatens them. I am a
monster from the Land! I am going to eat you!
to Part 2 . .
© pinlighter
9 Sept 2001
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