Fish Tails (12 page)

“Process,”
said Abasio, firmly. “We carry the process by which humanity is to be transformed.” He had stepped back against the wall and now leaned on it, letting himself sag. He and Xulai were still struggling with vocabulary. Though they had been on this journey the better part of a year, their reception had been so varied that no single, effective pattern had emerged. Forty-­something villages, so far. Forty isolated citadels to invade, forty armies of superstitious villagers to win over. How they explained their task successfully in one place might be badly misunderstood in another. The first generation of changers—­as he and Xulai were—­needed sea-­eggs to make the transformation, and though they carried a sizable store of them well hidden in the wagon, they would not mention or distribute them until they reached the seacoast to the south. The first-­generation change could be traumatic, as the two of them well remembered with a mixture of dismay and amusement. It could be done only in deep water, preferably seawater, and—­to minimize trauma—­among ­people who had already experienced the change. Abasio still remembered his transformation with embarrassment. He had behaved badly. Or, as Blue said,
“Like a pig keeper who got knocked into the wallow!”

So, in these upland villages, he and Xulai didn't mention the first-­generation change. The traditional prejudices of the mountain ­people ran too deep to risk it. They had learned to speak only in generalities, letting the ­people see the children, explaining that yes, they were their own children, and referring interested young ­couples or individuals to the Sea-­Dwellers Center in Wellsport: Sea Duck 2, as it was called by its inhabitants, for they had, each and every one, been “sea-­ducked” and were able to breathe underwater.

Abasio patted Bertram on his shoulder, relieved to see he looked less gray, less desperate. “Bertram, we're traveling about to explain the
process
by which parents can bear children who will survive the change. We tell ­people where they can go to find out more. We offer neither inducements nor threats. We're among the first such travelers, but as time goes by, there will be many more of us. Everyone now alive on Earth will have the chance to meet travelers like ourselves.”

Xulai momentarily closed her eyes, fervently praying this would be true. Just now she could number the teams on her fingers and toes. Sea Duck 1 was in Tingawa, started shortly after the children's birth. Then she and Abasio had carried sea-­eggs from Tingawa and returned to Wellsport to establish Sea Duck 2 while Precious Wind had traveled to the Golf Coast to set up Sea Duck 3. From Wellsport, two small ships were working their way south along an enormous length of coastline—­Sowmari Cah—­much of it mountainous—­that ran almost to the southern pole. Across the western sea, there were almost a dozen teams fanning out to the west and north from Tingawa along the edges of Ahsiya that Abasio persisted in thinking of Ahsiya as “the backside of the world.” He knew very well the world didn't have “sides,” while at the same time knowing instinctively that he was on the front one.

Soon within the next two or three years, there would be a Sea Duck 4, 5, and 6—­six ­couples were being trained—­on the Brittns, offshore of Yurope. Yurope would come next, with sea-­egg teams taking ships up the major rivers. Eventually, next century when the water rose higher, teams would go to Ahfreeka. Ahfreeka had been almost totally depopulated during the Big Kill, and the survivors had taken refuge in the midcontinent jungles. They would not approach the coasts and might not be reachable until the floodwaters inexorably moved the coasts to them.

But all that was “soon” and “elsewhere.” Xulai and Abasio's work was “now” and “here.” They would cross the Stonies to recruit young ­people from the area known as Artemisia who would be sent to Sea Duck 3
.

Xulai's lifelong friend, Precious Wind, was there, traveling with other volunteers, and it was she who had told them the area had been named for the Golf ­People, a pre–Big Kill society led by elderly priests who performed the daily fertility rites. Wearing ritual garments and followed by acolytes who carried the sacred paraphernalia, the priests led processions across dedicated grasslands in pursuit of little white eggs, which, when found, were driven with sanctified spears or implements into previously bored holes in the ground—­also sanctified and so marked with holy flags.

The symbolism was typical of most fertility rituals, requiring little explanation: ova being sought by the male organ and repeatedly pursued into the womb. The rite, as a whole, was well understood as begging divine encouragement of reproduction—­much desired after the Big Kill, when population had dropped so disastrously.

Precious Wind—­who was an inveterate accumulator of esoteric knowledge—­was writing a detailed account of the ritual impedimenta. Egg, womb, and spear were obvious, but as yet no one had been able to explain why so many spears were employed in the ritual and why they had such odd shapes. Virtually all records of that time had been destroyed during the Big Kill, but small household idols of the priests in ritual dress and posture—­one leg straight, one bent, spears held aloft, gaze directed prayerfully at the heavens—­had been found during excavations.

All of which was neither here nor there.
Xulai took a deep breath and returned to the reality of now. She pointed over her shoulder. “Bertram, we've come in a wagon. We parked it in the clearing, near your pond.” She turned toward the window behind them.

As though upon cue, Redshanks obliged them:
“Kruk, kruk, kuraaawk. Kruk, kruk, kuraaawk.”

“That's our rooster,” Abasio murmured. “Always nice to have a rooster along to wake one in the morning and encourage the chickens: fresh eggs for breakfast; a tasty something to look forward to after
wearying
hours on the road.” Perhaps the man would hear the emphasis. Perhaps the man would take on the character of a tailor! At least temporarily!

On his part, Bertram was fully aware that both these ­people were charming and soothing him; it annoyed him that he felt both charmed and soothed. Volumetarians learned to be leery of charm, for it made one vulnerable. The burners of books sometimes hid behind charm. His instinct was to continue dithering. Dithering had saved Volumetarians in past centuries when they had been confronted with burners and censors and who knows what else they called themselves? Inquisitors. Oh, yes, that, too. On the other hand, this man's clothes were far finer than those any book burner had ever worn. Bertram had not seen fabric like that in decades. Or style. The outer tunic, the way it was lined, that narrow band at the sleeve! Silk! How long since he had seen real silk! The woman's wide trousers and shirt, with an embroidered and beaded waistcoat—­worn while
traveling
! It should be properly wrapped and carried in a silk case for some formal occasion! And their boots! The man's boots had been made by a very talented boot maker out of some leather he could not even recognize—­as had hers. Yes. Hers were even better. Would inquisitors dress like this?

Xulai flounced impatiently. Both men heard the subliminal stamping of a not-­altogether-­imaginary foot: “Listen, Sir Tailor,
listen
! We're telling you that before long there will be many of us traveling about. Some of us will have children with us. We will go to places that are not yet inundated. Some of those places are damnably chilly as it is here, right now, and we can't keep the babies wrapped in shawls forever! They need JACKETS. They may even, heaven help us, need TROUSERS.”

The young tailor drew a heavy breath and silently repeated a mantra that had to do with stitches in time saving one thing or another as he turned his eyes back to the f . . . the children in question. Actually, now that he was really looking at them, jackets wouldn't be a bad idea. Something in a warm fabric, with wide armholes for mobility, a style that nipped in a bit at the waist. They did have waists, obviously. Were they old enough to walk . . . he didn't mean that. Were they . . . “Ma'am, are they already swimming? I mean, can they?” He turned to take up a fold of paper and a pen.

“Certainly,” Xulai replied, her annoyance subsiding. Questions were welcome. Questions meant involvement; involvement meant acceptance—­eventually. “They were born able to swim, as most babies are. Prior to birth, all babies swim in the womb. We all evolved originally as sea creatures. Our children do not walk, as yet, though the anatomists tell us they will, though a bit clumsily because of the long feet, which will seem shorter as the bodies grow larger. When they go underwater the legs fit together and the skin overlaps—­you can see the right-­over-­left fold—­and there is also a very novel arrangement in the joints of hips and knees that allows . . .”

“Fluidity of motion,” suggested Abasio wearily. They had not been doing this long enough to have it totally by rote, but they could let their mouths do parts of the work automatically, though only those parts including words they had previously analyzed for every possible invidious implication. If there was any way under heaven that some Stone Age villager could misinterpret what they said, they
would
misinterpret—­and always to the detriment of their purpose!

“Fluidity of motion,” agreed Xulai. Now that her spate of fury had worn itself out, she also sagged. A chair was close behind her and she sank into it, almost without volition. These last days had been hideous! They had fled from Churn-­top, having been told by a sympathetic woman that some of the villager men intended to kill them during the night. They had already decided to detour around the next nearest two villages, for those two had been classified as dangerous from the beginning. The map had been made by the tax office in Ghastain. Since a troop of armed guards accompanied the king's tax-­hogs—­so named by the king himself, for their ability to
root out
assets carefully hidden by tax evaders—­a place known by them to be dangerous was a place to be avoided.

The three dangerous villages had been separated by dense forest. There were streams, but none offered a comfortable place to camp nearby. When they were too tired to go on, they'd turned into the first available opening among the trees, erasing the hoof and wheel tracks behind them. They'd used
ul xaolat,
the thing master, to hide the wagon, and they had traded off, keeping watch all night while torchbearing men in twos and threes went by on the so-called road, calling to one another in furious whispers.

Ul xaolat
was a device that could, at command, dispose of the men by moving them far away or by killing them. Xulai preferred such measures be used only as a last resort. She and Abasio were the first to travel this route on this mission; there would be others later. Killing off half the inhabitants might prejudice later recruitment teams, so they stayed awake. Sleeplessness, however, added to general weariness, and Xulai could not remember ever having been this tired. Well, not within the last year, at least. Perhaps before that, that time she was hugely pregnant and being dragged up that dreadful cliff as bait for the Last Monster, half dead with fear and bitterly resigned to dying for her ­people but not at all . . . willing! She'd been frightened, yes, scared into paralysis, yes, but even then she couldn't remember being this tired!

And
even that
wasn't the real problem! She'd accepted it would be dangerous. She'd known that! The trip was long, but she could accept that! She'd expected that! The problem was that
she hadn't expected virtually everything else—­all of it happening too quickly
!

The babies were growing faster than babies possibly could! The arrangements she and Abasio had planned for their care—­smiling the while, telling each other how smart they were, baby-­talking at the little ones and believing they were being extremely intelligent and prescient—­those arrangements
might as well have been
designed by a blind eeler for the care of snails
! The buckets that were expected to hold the children for the better part of a year had been outgrown months ago! A tinner in one of the towns they had passed through had put together three discarded stock tanks to make a shallow basin that took up half the floor of the wagon, but even it had become crowded!
Everything in the wagon was constantly damp!
Add the dust to the damp, and one was always filthy! The children accumulated toys. Tadpoles. Baby turtles. Efts. Each time they stopped near a river, Abasio had to take the old efts and tadpoles out of the tank, many of them newts and frogs by that time, creatures who considered Xulai's pillow an appropriate place to croak their territoriality. Xulai dreaded to think what the babies would bring home when they reached a real ocean. A baby shark, perhaps. A clutch of little octopi. Or would octopi come in sucks? “A suck of octopi.” No. Clutch sounded better. It went better with eggs . . .

“I did suggest we leave them with the Sea King,” said Abasio, leaning to embrace her, but doing it very gently. Heaving water buckets had left them both with shoulders that were sore to the touch. “He is, in one sense, their grandfather. But . . .” He lifted Bailai into his own arms, feeling the ache in the muscles of his back.
He wouldn't feel so weary if he could just sleep soundly. He had never had what ­people called nightmares, and the dreams he was having now couldn't really be called nightmares; they weren't frightening or horrible; some of them were even funny. There was one about a creature named Plethrob that was . . . silly! Now, that one had something to do with sex! No, everything that one did was with sex! Though how it was connected to anything else, God only knew. It was ridiculous, if anything. Purposeless! And if it was connected with what he and Xulai were doing, somehow, he couldn't figure out what! Except that the character, the six-­armed character, was in that one as well.