voice saying things that seem authoritative, Peasimy’s transfigured face, the beauty of the carved woman, all that reaches them so they go away from the place nodding their heads, believing she is whatever Peasimy calls her. Believing they had heard of the Truth Bearer all their lives, pleased and delighted, though mystified, that she has come.
The day after goes on with saying and saying until what is said by one is said by everyone and believed by everyone. Someone – years later the distinction is claimed by half the families in Thou-ne – someone says the glowing image belongs in the Temple. By evening she is there, in the Temple of the Moons, there at the top of the sanctuary steps in front of the carved visages of the gods, looking down at the people in kindness and wonder. By evening the ritual surrounding her has begun. From the balcony high above, a novice ladles water from buckets, an endless line of buckets carried from the River itself, and in this dank sprinkle the image of Suspirra stands, shining wetly and smiling, as though forever. Peasimy kneels at the altar rail, his face glowing like the moon.
Behind him in the sanctuary, Widow Flot stares at his back, not knowing whether she is thankful for this or not. Peasimy hasn’t been up in the daytime for a dozen years or more, and this could mean he will start sleeping at night, like most people. Which means he’ll be underfoot, during the day, most likely.
‘Flot-wife,’ says a voice behind her in gloomy tones, and she turns to confront Haranjus Pandel.
‘Superior,’ she says formally in her most discouraging tone. What is he going to make of this, now? Some new thing to bother honest people with?
Instead he asks in gloomy tones, ‘What is all this? You can tell me, Widow Flot. Haven’t I the right to know? All the responsibility, and no one tells me? Did he carve the thing? Did he?’
She stares, laughs, stares again. He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t even believe it himself. He sits there on the hard, uncomfortable bench, head propped on one hand, his long, lugubrious face attentive to the glowing woman behind the rail. Is he thinking, too, that it may really be a miracle? Behind the shining woman are the faces of Potipur, Abricor, and Viranel, so familiar the worshipers do not even see them. Now, for the first time, Widow Flot sees these carved faces of the gods contrasted with a human face, the shining woman’s face, and knows them for what they are.
‘Haranjus,’ she breathes in the grip of discovery. ‘Potipur’s face! That’s a flier’s face!’
And he, casting his eyes upward, sees the faces of the gods for the first time. Really seeing. Peering down at him with a hooded-eyed cynicism, beaks gaped a little as though hungry. Fliers’ faces. He has never questioned them before, never before even noticed the expressions they wear. How long, he wondered in sudden panic, how long had he been worshiping the fliers without even knowing it?
5
In the Awakeners’ Tower in Baris, Pamra Don lay sleeping.
The Candy Tree filled all the space above her, glitter and shimmer of leaf behind leaf, blossoms squirming open in a sensuous dance of hue and scent, explosions of amber and gold, bursts of gemmy reds, all rustling, flushing, burgeoning into every empty space, thrusting its light and color upon her, drawing her up into itself, weightlessly … toward glory …
Something rasped, scraped. A hard sound. Nothing alive in it. Metal on stone. The Candy Tree shivered. Pamra ignored the sound, hating it, clinging to the tree …
‘The new drainage ditches along the Tower wall,’ a voice in her mind said clearly. ‘A worker crew digging drainage ditches.’
With that recognition the Candy Tree dream slipped away like smoke, and she woke thinking of Delia.
Tangled warmth of bedcovers; a ghostly reflection staring back at her from the glass across the cubicle. Last evening, the bleeding. This morning, heavy sleep and slow waking.
The day after goes on with saying and saying until what is said by one is said by everyone and believed by everyone. Someone – years later the distinction is claimed by half the families in Thou-ne – someone says the glowing image belongs in the Temple. By evening she is there, in the Temple of the Moons, there at the top of the sanctuary steps in front of the carved visages of the gods, looking down at the people in kindness and wonder. By evening the ritual surrounding her has begun. From the balcony high above, a novice ladles water from buckets, an endless line of buckets carried from the River itself, and in this dank sprinkle the image of Suspirra stands, shining wetly and smiling, as though forever. Peasimy kneels at the altar rail, his face glowing like the moon.
Behind him in the sanctuary, Widow Flot stares at his back, not knowing whether she is thankful for this or not. Peasimy hasn’t been up in the daytime for a dozen years or more, and this could mean he will start sleeping at night, like most people. Which means he’ll be underfoot, during the day, most likely.
‘Flot-wife,’ says a voice behind her in gloomy tones, and she turns to confront Haranjus Pandel.
‘Superior,’ she says formally in her most discouraging tone. What is he going to make of this, now? Some new thing to bother honest people with?
Instead he asks in gloomy tones, ‘What is all this? You can tell me, Widow Flot. Haven’t I the right to know? All the responsibility, and no one tells me? Did he carve the thing? Did he?’
She stares, laughs, stares again. He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t even believe it himself. He sits there on the hard, uncomfortable bench, head propped on one hand, his long, lugubrious face attentive to the glowing woman behind the rail. Is he thinking, too, that it may really be a miracle? Behind the shining woman are the faces of Potipur, Abricor, and Viranel, so familiar the worshipers do not even see them. Now, for the first time, Widow Flot sees these carved faces of the gods contrasted with a human face, the shining woman’s face, and knows them for what they are.
‘Haranjus,’ she breathes in the grip of discovery. ‘Potipur’s face! That’s a flier’s face!’
And he, casting his eyes upward, sees the faces of the gods for the first time. Really seeing. Peering down at him with a hooded-eyed cynicism, beaks gaped a little as though hungry. Fliers’ faces. He has never questioned them before, never before even noticed the expressions they wear. How long, he wondered in sudden panic, how long had he been worshiping the fliers without even knowing it?
5
In the Awakeners’ Tower in Baris, Pamra Don lay sleeping.
The Candy Tree filled all the space above her, glitter and shimmer of leaf behind leaf, blossoms squirming open in a sensuous dance of hue and scent, explosions of amber and gold, bursts of gemmy reds, all rustling, flushing, burgeoning into every empty space, thrusting its light and color upon her, drawing her up into itself, weightlessly … toward glory …
Something rasped, scraped. A hard sound. Nothing alive in it. Metal on stone. The Candy Tree shivered. Pamra ignored the sound, hating it, clinging to the tree …
‘The new drainage ditches along the Tower wall,’ a voice in her mind said clearly. ‘A worker crew digging drainage ditches.’
With that recognition the Candy Tree dream slipped away like smoke, and she woke thinking of Delia.
Tangled warmth of bedcovers; a ghostly reflection staring back at her from the glass across the cubicle. Last evening, the bleeding. This morning, heavy sleep and slow waking.
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