Forever Shores (25 page)

(To the best of my knowledge, this extract is a faithful transcription of said broadcast, bearing no distortions or discrepancies of which I am aware.)

An artificial mechanised form represents the ultimate evolutionary state of the intelligent human (or smart ape). Mechanisation overcomes the hindrance of
physical
and
emotional
weaknesses. A gorilla that becomes a furry robust non-lightweight jeep-like vehicle (with a roof) has jumped two evolutionary rungs. It is conceivable that one day gorillas will overrun (or run over) the human population and become the dominant species on Earth. Such scenarios have frequently been the subject of fiction, but with the presence of this new breed of gorilla and the accompanying unrest between gorilla and human populations, such a scenario has the distinct possibility of becoming reality.

Rynemonn
Terry Dowling

Terry Dowling often wraps individual story output within overall themes. His
Rynosseros
series of books, Rynosseros (1991, Aphelion; 2003, MirrorDanse),
Blue Tyson
(1992, Aphelion) and
Twilight Beach
(1993, Aphelion) are prime examples of this approach.

The three stories and introductory fragment presented here as ‘Rynemonn' are the concluding tales of a fourth Tom Rynosseros volume (yet to be published) by that name.

Editors

Doing the Line

You find a spot, often near a belltree on its lonely stretch of Road. You stop, secure your craft, take up your supplies and walk out, use your compass, calculate your angle and keep walking.

You find a place on the shore of a sand-sea. You sit on the lonely beach, ideally its only inhabitant, only human inhabitant at least, and, shielded by sand-shades and desert robes, you simply let it come to you.

First it's the silence once your tread and body sounds have settled. The silence and the distances, and with them the blinding strike of sun on sand and stone and heated air, the light coming at you in shimmers, planes and pulses, in glare and sundry mirages. Then you feel—truly feel—the breath of the land, feel the roll of thermals, the living tides of the sand-sea, pushing in upon you, stirring your robes, stray wisps of air, tufts of spinifex, catching on stones and rock towers and stands of land-coral, spiralling up to make anomalies in the flow, weather, a sense of this place and not some other.

Steadily, you learn it, cannot do otherwise. It becomes defined. You sit studying the vast, heat-locked, heat-changed distances, savouring the paradoxes, the rich yet minimalist character, or you lie back so the sky is everything and you could fall up into it. You consider each trace of cloud that appears, watch as it crawls by two or three miles overhead, know it intimately before it slips out of your piece of blue.

Most cultures have given a name to that moment of seeing, knowing and at-oneness. Such an elemental recognition is among the most ancient wisdoms of the Ab'O. These tribal peoples, as changed, changing and changeless as they now are, who have always had the soul-map of the songlines to keep intact this vital, pivotal connection between self and place, reality and dream, identity and the infinite, are caught between amusement and grudging approval at this growing habit among Nationals. They cannot be what they are, see as they do, and not approve. No, they applaud the belated longing; they do not evict the new wanderers on the land, for they know what it is, what has caused it. Deeply know. And you cannot know such a thing and not allow it in others. It is where it all comes together—in this shared knowing.

So when this man came to this shore, watched the land and the day happening, blended time and place with self, there was maat restored again, and hozho and wa, a gesture towards such things at least, and there was ‘doing the Line', some clumsy, earnest honouring of the songlines, eternal upon the land. The Land. Let us get this right as well. What is.

You may already know him, of him. He is sometimes called the Leopard now, after a mythical animal in the heraldries of ancient lands (you would have to ask the Antique Men about that). But he has many names: Tom Tyson, Blue Tyson, Tom O'Bedlam, Tom Rynosseros, TJA96042, others.

But in a way I hope you don't. Because then this will be as new as the Line has made it all for him. Then it will come to you as life always comes to us, as bits lived elsewhere and brought to us as glimpses of something ongoing, made part of
our
purpose,
our
experience. Only partly true, of course, since truth is always somewhere else.

It was a appropriate that he chose this place, the shore of this sand-sea, with this belltree to sit near. He sat watching it for a long time, the desert, the tree, the sky, the tree. It was different than most. It was not beside an official Road for a start, but looked out on the empty distances of Bullen Meddi, and it was wind and not sun-powered, with a finned crown turning above the diligent where its tiny life sat. It was different too in that it stood near the remains of an abandoned carnival. Laid out close by were the improbable, crazy shapes of a carousel, a ferris wheel, an ornamental gate, other ragged ramshackle structures half-buried in the sand like bits of discarded dream, or something just now forming, pushing through.

‘The Line does not have to be straight, merely complete', the old saying has it, so it was appropriate that he start the Line here, and finally, finally, on the evening of the fifth day when he was slowed enough and ready enough, he walked over to the spinner and sat on the sand before it.

‘Hello Khoumy?' he called up, not really expecting an answer, not even sure it lived, despite the turning crown. There was only the old silence beyond the whirr of the spinner cap, the hiss of sand, now and then the flutter of old canvas, the tick of heated metal in the deserted carnival streets.

‘Djuringa,' he said moments later, and when the echo came back flecked with static—‘Djuringa'—added: ‘Do you know me?'

‘I might,' the belltree said, its voice raw and unpractised. ‘You're human life.'

‘Well, yes. That's right. I am. I'm Tom Tyson.' He didn't expect it to remember his name.

Moments passed, the finned crown turning in the brilliant air. There was a soft music as well now, a low melodious pulse from the dim-recall rods low in the AI's shaft. It was ministering to him, trying to give what the greater belltree strains did, life-gift, harvested windsong, a seeding of negative ions. Being near most belltrees gave the ozone rush of impossible storms, the exhilaration of charged molecules. From this weathered post came just the infrequent pulses, the best it could do, but signs all the same.

‘You came from the Madhouse. Seven years ago.'

‘You're right. I did.' The belltree's knowledge surprised him. ‘You tap into the net?'

‘Sometimes,' the voice came, still raw but steadying, firming with use. ‘I'm not very strong. But sometimes other trees remember to talk to me. Stronger ones reach out and find me. Sometimes humans come and help.'

It was better than Tom had dared expect. ‘I'm glad they do. Very glad. What else do you know? About me?'

Again the spinner paused, seeking data. The cap turned.

‘That you came out with only three clear memories from your past—of a ship, a star, the face of a woman. You won a great ship from the tribes.
Rynosseros
. And Blue. A Hero Colour. Your name is in the Great Passage Book. You said my name.'

Tom realised it was a question. ‘Yes, Khoumy. I came here once. You told me your name.'

‘I've forgotten that. I'm not very smart. There are so many things to know.'

‘There are. So please try again, Khoumy. What else have you heard? About me?'

The spinner cap turned, raw with reflected light. ‘You are looking for your past. You're a pirate now because of what happened at—Caaerdia? Is that a place?'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘This is a place. It's hard to imagine other places.'

‘I suppose it is.'

‘The other trees talk about places all the time. They talk about you. The Leopard. I don't know what that means. But you're a champion of AI. That's a good thing. I like you for that.'

‘Yes, well, thank you, Khoumy. I'm trying to find out things. About my past. About my three signs. It's why I'm here. Out here.'

‘Here.'

‘Yes.'

The next words startled him. ‘You fear you may be made like me. You sent your ship away.'

‘How do you know that, Khoumy? That I might have been made?'

‘It's here. In the net. There is another place. Pentecost.'

‘Is there more?'

‘Yes.'

‘I mean please tell me what else you know about me.'

Tom found that what had started as simple delight at a marvellous thing, this tree here and alive still, had become sudden anxiety, special need. Thousands upon thousands of belltrees across Australia, scattered along the desert Roads. What were they saying?

‘The Life Houses wanted a National Clever Man. They built for that.'

‘I fear they did. But Life Houses usually build what they are asked to build.'

‘Usually?'

‘Most of the time. Who would want a National who is also a Clever Man?'

‘I don't know. But you can read the haldanes.'

‘In a way. Do you know what haldanes are, Khoumy?'

‘Bigger humanity. I found out. You thought they were gods, but they're you.'

‘Yes. Bigger humanity. That's a good way to put it. We used to think it was what gave the tribes their mental powers. Energy vectors they could access. Now we think they are something more. We're finding ourselves.'

‘It's why you're here.'

‘That's right. Finding myself. Trying.'

‘They tried to kill your friends. Your ship.'

‘They did. At Pentecost and Caaerdria. Because of me. Whatever I am. They act more openly now.'

‘They killed my friends.'

The other spinners Quint made, Tom realised, remembering how the eccentric old National had wanted to re-open the carnival, had made his own belltrees here.

‘Yes. But I had to see if you still lived. It's why I decided to start the Line here.'

‘It's good to be here.'

‘Yes, Khoumy. Yes, it is. Tomorrow I'll go out there. Do the Line.'

‘To another place. Other places.' The voice was stronger now, so full of joy at talking.

‘Many other places, yes.'

There was silence between them then, near-silence, the thermals rolling in, the spinner cap turning, the remains of the old carnival muttering to itself in time with the day. Tom felt easier than he had in months. He lay back on his elbows and looked up at the diligent below the spinning crown.

‘Are you happy?'

‘I don't know that,' the belltree said.

‘Are you glad to be here? To be a belltree here?'

‘I am here.'

‘But are you glad you are?'

‘It's all there is.'

Tom wasn't sure why he pressed. ‘But it matters to you?'

‘Matters?'

‘The sun is good?'

‘Yes.'

‘The wind?'

‘Yes.'

‘The night?'

‘There are stars! Yes!'

‘You like these things?'

‘Oh yes. They are good.'

‘You're happy then?'

‘I'm part of the story, aren't I?'

‘Yes.' What else to say? ‘I'm part of yours too. That's what living things do. Make stories of themselves.'

‘For themselves?'

Tom smiled up at the flashing crown. ‘Yes. For themselves and then for others.'

‘Will you tell me a story? About another place? I'd really like that. About why you're here. Why you came back here.'

‘All right.' And Tom thought about it, really thought about it, at last or again, for he hadn't been sure, not really.

But cause. Actual cause. Only two steps were needed.

‘A story,' he said. ‘But you must remember it.'

‘I will remember. It will be my job.'

‘Good. And tell the others. Tell the older, stronger belltrees you have a story to trade. But they have to talk to you. They must include you.'

‘That will be my job too.'

‘Yes.'

And leaning back in the sand, losing himself in the feathering of air against his cheek and the rush of the spinner cap against the blue, Tom went back and began the story.

Coyote Struck by Lightning

Have you ever looked at something and not seen it? Have you watched a street, studied a painting, looked through a window at a familiar landscape and only later truly beheld it for the first time, yet at first glimpse already had the sense, the premonition—somehow—of knowing it fully? Have you done this?

That is how it was that day on the coast outside Cervantes, with the rotors of the wind-farm turning—whoop whoop whoop—at the edge of town and the tribal people and Nationals bringing in their sand-dolls, and the smoke of bale-fires blackening the sky. It was Colios, a vital time, a pivotal time and, as so often happens, a largely unrecognised time.

The festival of Colios was a new thing, or rather a new-old thing, for its origins and workings were lost in memory and borrowed traditions. Like Koronai in Twilight Beach, like Tafa at Inlansay and Saralon at Port Allure, it fell during the first weeks of autumn. Every afternoon, every evening, there were bale-fires set along the outskirts of the town and up on the headlands where the desert met the sea, columns of black smoke streaking the sky, stealing the sky, linking up to form arches: roiling, surging cloisters through which the townspeople would come to add their votive dolls to the communal fires. The smoke of those fires became vortices in the rotors of the wind-farm at the southern edge of town, became tangled, corkscrewed and flung away by the big ferris wheel at the carnival on Black Point.

It was all part of the payback of Colios, the new thanksgiving, since the Right to Fire, like the Right to Wind, Earth and Water, were all part of life's round. It was what you did. Rights had become rites, of course, the reasons for doing lost in the custom of doing.

So it was, a kilometre outside of the ancient town of Cervantes on the west coast of Australia, that I followed the Line, allowed it to take me, directed it in fact so I could meet the Navajo semiologist-shamans from the university at Waso, here to study the newest skypainting in the A200 series.

They were down on the painting itself when I arrived at 1436, and when Ester, the local Council delegate, learned who I was, she couldn't help repeating the headline on the dailies back in town as she led me across to where they waited.

‘They all have the same first name,' she said, as if that were even more amazing than Navajo hatathalis being interested in these anomalies, even more amazing than the skypaintings themselves. ‘They're an old Amerind people. I never knew that.'