And on the Eighth Day (5 page)

That day? It seemed like only yesterday—

Suddenly Ellery realized that it had been only yesterday.

The shock jolted him out of the sense of dream-participation which he had been experiencing. It was as if he had been caught in a time maze, in which past and present kept shifting like the colors of a kaleidoscope. Certain now, as he had not been a moment before, which day of the week it was (although he was by no means certain of the year, or, for that matter, of the century), Ellery watched the Teacher take a knife from some pocket or pouch within his robes and sliding it from its sheath show Storicai that the blade was broken.

“Shall I fetch you a new one, then?” asked the younger man.

“No—” the Teacher said. (Or was it “Nay”? What was that odd accent, or inflection? Had it developed from some originally minor quirk of speech by the Quenan community’s isolation?—or from some other tongue?—or from both?) “—no, I shall choose one for myself. Each hand knows its own need best, Storesman. Place the broken one in the repairs bin for the Carpentersmith.”

Murmuring, “So, Teacher,” Storicai the Storesman obeyed (in a community like this, Ellery thought, waste-not-want-not would be more a matter of survival than of thrift); but the Storesman did so with his eyes still on the stranger, on and away and on and away.

The Teacher’s voice came from the shadows. “When last you saw our guest, Storicai, you did not know, nor did I know, that he was to be here amongst us. He it is who was foretold. It is a great thing that has been visited upon us, Storesman, a very great thing.” The voice, so old, so strong, fell silent.

The Storesman’s eyes widened with that same wonder Ellery had seen throughout Quenan. Rather restlessly, Ellery stirred. A stray sunbeam picked out his wrist watch, and it glittered. The Storesman uttered a little cry.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

“My wrist watch—”

“Oh!”

The watch was of gold, and wafer-thin, his father’s birthday present to him of some years earlier. It showed not only the time of day but the day of the month as well, and the year, and the phases of the moon. Only the last, Ellery now thought, seemed fitting to this valley. New moon and old moon: what other reckoning was needed in this little lost land—land which time forgot, to its contentment?

“Haven’t you ever seen a wrist watch?” Ellery asked, raising his arm.

The Storesman’s bearded face was broad with amazement. “A timepiece to wear on the hand? No, no.”

“Then you have seen watches of other kinds? And clocks?”

Ellery hoped that he did not sound like the mighty white man patronizing the child of nature. But it turned out that Storicai was familiar with watches and clocks. There were a few watches in Quenan (Ellery saw some of them later—great, grave grandfathers of pocket timepieces, wound by key, which must have crossed the prairies behind oxen leaning heavily into the endlessly stretching grass), and a few clocks, too. “Clocks with hands,” the Storesman explained with pride, although it appeared that most of them were hourglasses, and some sundials (“for shadow-time”) and some water clocks (“for night-time”).

On impulse Ellery slipped the watch off his wrist. Storicai’s eyes opened even wider at the flexible action of the metal-mesh band. “This is what it does,” Ellery said. “And this … and this.”

“But the key. I see no keyhole.”

“It keeps winding itself up, Storicai. Through the ordinary movements of the arm.”

The Storesman touched the wrist watch timidly. Again it glittered, and the glitter reflected from his eyes. For a moment Ellery wondered if the gleam signified wonder so much as cupidity. Or perhaps neither, he thought. Or something else, or nothing else.

“Here is the new knife I have chosen,” said the Teacher, returning. “It fits my hand well.”

The Storesman nodded, turning reluctantly from Ellery’s watch. He drew toward him a huge ledgerlike tome, a sort of log or daybook that looked homemade; and in this tome he recorded the transaction of the knives. When he was finished, Ellery—again on impulse—held the wrist watch out to him. “I have another one I can use while I am here,” he said to Storicai. “Would you like to wear this one until I leave?”

Storicai’s eyes shone as he turned automatically to the Teacher. And the old man smiled and nodded as if to a child. Ellery slipped his watch over Storicai’s thick wrist; and as he and the Teacher left the storehouse. Ellery glanced back to see the bearded man turning the gold watch this way and that in the shaft of sunlight.

“Your temple, is that it?—or your, well, town hall?” Ellery asked as they went into the tallest and most imposing of the stone public buildings. Each window was set in a vertical recess almost the height of the structure.

“The Holy Congregation House,” the Teacher said. “Here I have my room, and the Successor has his. Here is where the Crownsil meets, and here—”

“The what meets?” Ellery thought the old man’s speech idiosyncrasy had corrupted the word “council.”

But the old man repeated patiently, “Crownsil. In this hall the Crownsil of Twelve holds its meetings, as you will see. As indeed, Elroï, you have already seen.”

Elroï!

Nothing of yesterday, then, had been a dream.

And—“Already seen”?

A dream and not a dream. What was real? Ellery thought in a detached desperation. He would ask no more questions. Listen, he told himself, listen. And observe. Perceive …

He perceived a hall running the length of the building, in the manner of the schoolhouse. It contained one very long and narrow table, with two benches of corresponding length along the sides, and two short benches, one at the head, the other at the foot. The only lamp he had yet seen in Quenan burned in a bracket over a door set in the far wall opposite the entrance—here evidently was the explanation for the kerosene the Teacher had bought at the End-of-the-World Store. End-of-the-World … If the world’s end was anywhere, it was here in the Valley of Quenan surrounded by the hill called Crucible.

The old man was speaking again, pointing with his staff in the dim, yellowish, faintly nickering light. The doors in the long walls to the left and right led to sleeping quarters, he explained; the single door in the left wall led to his chamber, which was as large as the two rooms beyond the two doors in the right wall. And the patriarch went to the right wall and knocked with his staff on one of the two doors.

It was opened immediately by a young man, a very young man; eighteen, nineteen, Ellery thought, no older. A teen-ager with the face of a Michelangelo angel, except that it was rimmed by a crisply curling young beard.

The angelic face lit up with joy.

“Teacher!” he exclaimed. “When my brothers ran from the schoolhouse to tell me you had declared a holiday, and why, I put on my robes.” He was dressed in a garment much like the old man’s. “Guest”—he turned to Ellery and took both Ellery’s hands in his—“Guest, you are welcome here. You are very welcome. Blessed is the Wor’d.”

Ellery looked into his eyes, dark in the sun-browned young face; and the dark eyes looked back at him with infinite trust. Such trust that, when the boy gently released him, Ellery turned away. Who am I, he thought, that I should be looked at with such trust … with such
love
…? Who am I—or who do they think I am?

“Elroï—Quenan—” the patriarch was saying, “this is the Successor.”

Successor? Ellery wondered. To what? But then he realized that, as the old man uttered the word, it was capitalized. Successor to whom? Instantly he knew the answer. Successor to the old man himself.

“Teacher, you called him …” The young Successor hesitated. “You called the Guest …?”

“By his names did I call him, Successor,” said the old man gravely. “By his name which is Elroï, and by his name which is Quenan. It is he, Successor. It is indeed he.”

At which the Successor, with a look of adoration, dropped to his knees, and prostrated himself, and kissed—yes, thought Ellery, it cannot be said any other way—kissed the hem of his garment

“The room where I rest and sleep is the room next door. But this room,” the Successor was saying (while Ellery reproached himself: Why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I at least ask what it all means?), “this room is where I study and write.” He emphasized the last word slightly. “There is no other room like this one. It is called the scriptorium.”

On the table were paper, ink, pens. As to what he might be writing, the Successor did not say.

The Teacher pointed with his long staff to the door under the lamp. “That room is the smallest,” he said. “But the least shall be the greatest. That is the—” he pronounced a word. It sounded like “sanctum.”

Sanctum?
The holy place? Again Ellery could not be sure of what he had heard, again it seemed to him that there had been a pause, a hesitation …
sanc’tum
.

The dreamy haze, half mystification, half fatigue, through which he had been seeing everything, lifted for a moment. He heard himself asking matter-of-factly, like the Ellery Queen of a million years ago, “How do you spell that?”

“It is the forbidden room,” said the Successor. Then, “Spell—? I will write it for you.” The young man seated himself at a writing desk, selected a reed pen, fixed its point with a small knife, dipped it in a jar of ink, and wrote on a scrap of paper. There was something arcane, hieratic, about his manner. Scriptorium … Suddenly Ellery realized what it was: with his own eyes, in the century of rocket experimentation and quantum physics, he was actually beholding a scribe at work in the manner of the ancients. In silence he picked up the piece of paper.

Sanquetum.

That explained the pronunciation.

Which explained nothing.

“It is time, Teacher,” Ellery said, “that you tell me just how your community is ruled. I must ask about other things, too. But that will do for the beginning.”

The old man looked into him—past him, perhaps. “What you require of me, Quenan, I shall do, although I know that you ask only to prove me. We are not ruled, Quenan. We have no rule here. We have governance.”

Something flashed through Ellery’s mind; eluded him; then he had it. Some lines from an old book:
Dr. Melancthon said to Dr. Luther, Martin, this day thou and I will discuss the governance of the universe. Dr. Luther said to him, Nay, Phillip—this day thou and I will go fishing, and leave the governance of the universe to God.

What Dr. Melancthon had replied, Ellery did not remember. “Fish, or cut bait,” perhaps.

“Governance, then,” said Ellery. The old man glanced at the Successor, who immediately rose and parted from them with a vigorous handclasp and a radiant smile.

Taking Ellery into the long hall, the Teacher seated him at the table of the Crownsil and sank onto the bench opposite. For a moment he seemed to meditate (or pray?). Then he began to speak. And as he spoke, Ellery felt himself slip back into the dream, the timeless world which possessed “what the world had lost.” And the old one’s voice was as soft as the lamplight on his face, which made Ellery blink, for it was like looking at a very old painting through a golden haze.

“The Crownsil of the Twelve,” said the venerable Teacher, “I shall list for you in an order, Quenan. But in this order none is first, as none is last.”

And he uttered a word. Was the word “grower”? “Growther”? Ellery puzzled over it. But he could not decide.

The Grower
, or
Growther
, it seemed, oversaw all the crops and what they entailed: choosing which plots were to be planted to corn, which to cotton, or flax, or beans, or melons, or whatever; directing how they were tended, and by whom; and how harvested, and when.

The Herder.
The Herder’s responsibility was the cattle, sheep, goats, donkeys, and fowl of the community (there were no horses in Quenan, the Teacher said; what purposes horses might have served were more easily and economically served by the donkeys). The Herder saw that the beasts were kept from the growing crops and the young trees; he saw to their pasturage, to their breeding, and to the care of their progeny. The Herder was also a man wise in the ills of animals, although his methods kept Quenan’s livestock in such rude health that his veterinary skills were not often needed.

The Waterman.
The very existence of the community depended on the Waterman’s labors. It was the Waterman whose duty it was to keep in good repair the cisterns and catch basins where the scant rains were stored; who saw that the wells were clean, the all-important springs kept open. He attended to the small aqueduct; and he husbanded the water of the irrigation ditches, portioning out what was needed for drinking, cooking, and the communal laundry and bath.

The Miller.
The Miller made use, when there was sufficient water, of a waterwheel to grind the community’s grains and legumes and even pumpkins into meal and flour. When there was no water, the Miller put up his sails and harnessed the winds. And if neither water nor wind was available, he blindfolded beasts so that they might not grow dizzy, and he walked them round and round to turn the millstones.

The Potter.
Crucible Hill contained no clay, but at a distance of less than a day’s journey by donkey, there was a clay pit. The Potter and his assistant turned out and fired the simple utensils of the community’s people, glazing them with salt from a nearby pan. The Potter also made some things apparently needed for religious purposes, but what these were the Teacher did not say.

And the
Slave
—

“The what?” cried Ellery.

“The Slave,” replied the Teacher with a sigh.

“You practice
slavery
?” Ellery heard his 1944 voice demand. To the ears of Elroï-in-Quenan it sounded brutally harsh and accusing. For in a community that lived a life of near-Biblical primitivity, was it so remarkable—?

“We merit your reproaches,” the patriarch said humbly. “Yet surely it is known to you that we no longer number slaves among us? This is the last. He is in his eighty-eighth year.”

“Resting from his labors, no doubt.” First the display of bucolic ethics, then this!

“The Slave does no labor at all,” the Teacher said. “He serves only by membership in the Crownsil. His needs are cared for by us all.”