Shaman (12 page)

The Tsong Zee's eyes were easily their most outstanding feature. They were, in all cases, huge, which contributed to the impression that the Tsong Zee were familiar. They had the classic “ET” look, which, growing out of the twentieth-century preoccupation with extraterrestrial visitors, had spawned myriad first contact movies and books. The eyes of these representatives came in a variety of shades, although gold seemed to predominate—of the eight members of the OROB team, three had gold eyes. The pupils were especially fascinating. They were vertical ellipsoids which behaved much like the pupils in a Terran cat's eyes. A major difference was that the widening and narrowing of the Tsong Zee pupils seemed to be at the voluntary control of the individual. Rhys made a mental note to study close-ups of those extraordinary features. There wasn't much to the Tsong Zee nose. It was a very slightly raised ridge that divided the face, beginning between the eyes and ending in two dainty vertically slit nostrils above the mouth.

Rhys leaned forward, his attention riveted on that important feature. The Tsong Zee mouth was exceptionally mobile. The thin upper lip was bifurcated; what was a Human birth defect referred to as a “hare-lip” was possessed by every Tsong Zee in the representative group. The mouths were, without exception, fairly wide and the lower lip was a fleshy pad of lighter skin. The color of the lower lip, Rhys noted, varied from a mauve in one individual to a rosy pink in another. The same color was displayed on the underside of what appeared to be roughly triangular ear-flaps that adorned both sides of each glossy head. High, patrician cheekbones were common in the group, but not the rule; jaws and chins gave the faces, with their universally-possessed widow's peak hairlines, a roughly heart-shaped appearance, but there was enough variance in the group that Rhys could easily distinguish individuals.

He was nodding absently, and Governor Bekwe pounced on the gesture of affirmation.

“You see something? Do you understand what the problem is?”

Rhys started. “Oh, I doubt you're dealing with a single problem here, Governor. These people are just Human enough to make you anthropomorphize, just alien enough to make you uncomfortable.”

He silently watched the proceedings between Human and Tsong Zee for several more minutes, then asked that the playback be reset to cover the same sequence with close-ups of the various Speakers. He watched that silently too, only dimly aware of the tension tugging the atmosphere around him. Dimly aware, too, that every eye in the room was locked on his face.

Governor Bekwe caught him nodding again. “What is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“You look like you've found something.”

Rhys smiled wryly. “Governor, I've found a lot of things, but I haven't yet solved your communication problem. I see its roots, though, in the simple fact that the Tsong Zee are not Human.”

Someone behind Rhys snorted. “You can say that again!”

Rhys gritted his teeth. “Look. I'm not saying they're incomprehensible or inhuman or even alien in the truest sense of the word. All I'm saying is that, regardless of how Human they might be at the core, no matter how possessed of the same qualities that we are, those qualities are not necessarily communicated in the same way. For example, they very likely feel anger. All right. When a Human is angry, he scowls.” He suited action to word then pointed at the holo-column, frozen, now, in a timeless tableau—one race of beings meeting another for the first time. “The Tsong Zee face is not built for scowling. The forehead is smooth; no muscles seem to be dedicated to contorting that part of the face. How do you propose to tell if you've angered a Tsong Zee? How do you imagine they interpret a Human scowl with nothing to compare it to?”

Joseph Bekwe uttered an exasperated chuff. “What in heaven's name can we do? We can't read facial expressions we don't have. Neither can they.”

Rhys looked back to the holo-column. “Just leave me alone with this for a while. Let me see if I can't pick up some pointers. Then we'll try communicating with them again.”

The governor nodded. “I guess we really don't have much choice. We have to negotiate with them, Dr. Llewellyn. Leaving this planet now would be almost impossible and the only other alternative they seem to be offering is a military one.”

“Which is to say,” said Danetta Price, “none at all.”

o0o

“You are Speaker?” asked the tall Tsong Zee directly across from Rhys. He raised his chin and gazed down at the human through eyes of pale blue. His nostrils flared as if seeking a scent.

“I am.” Rhys raised his chin by about the same amount and tried to emulate the direct gaze.

“Then you will comprehend” —a four-fingered hand clenched— “that you must leave what is not yours.”

“We comprehend” —Rhys copied the clenching gesture— “that you desire us to leave.”

There was a pronounced stiffening of the Tsong Zee delegation and a hurried discussion between the four Speakers accompanied by much head-shaking and gesticulating.

Rhys cursed silently. He had apparently already committed a gaffe and wished he knew what it was. He went back over the sentence he had just uttered. There were no potentially inflammatory adjectives in the phrase, only...

The blue-eyed Tsong Zee Speaker, Javar, was facing him again. “We are pure in our desire to reclaim our world,” he said, his eyes blazingly wide, his pupils dilating slightly.

Rhys focused. It sounded like a defense—a protestation, as if... “We do not doubt the purity of your desire.” He gave his opposite the same wide-eyed stare and wished he could make his pupils react as well.

The Speaker gazed at him silently for a moment, then said, “If this is so, why did you suggest our desire was impure?” His eyes were half-hooded now, assessing or...

“I am sorry,” said Rhys. “I used the wrong word. I meant to say ‘desire.'” Eyes open wide. “Not ‘desire.'” Eye-lids at half-mast.

The Speaker glanced at his fellows, making a peculiar trilling noise with this bifurcated upper lip. A laugh? A sigh? He shifted in his seat and Rhys caught a whiff of some pleasantly spicy perfume that reminded him vividly of shaving and the tingle of icy cologne.

“This is difficult,” the Speaker said, and the corners of his mouth pulled downward. “I wish...” He paused and made a clearly dismissive gesture with his right hand—a flick-flick of the short, tapered fingers as if he was shooing away a flying pest. “But this is not possible. Let us continue. You now comprehend that our desire for our world is pure. We comprehend that you have conceived a desire (pure) for Tson, as well.”

“We are dependent upon it. That is, many of us are. It goes beyond simple desire (pure) for many of us. Some Humans have spent the last twenty-five years of their lives on this world. Some Humans have known no other world. They love it.” He waited. How did love translate to the Tsong Zee? The word, he already knew, was “
preem-eh
.” For all he knew, it might also translate as “liking”—the way a Terran would say, “I just love onions.”

Whatever the translation, he certainly had aroused some reaction among the Tsong Zee. They conferred again, briefly, and the Speaker changed. Now, Rhys was addressed by a delicate person with a musical voice and great, coppery eyes—a female named Parsa. She sniffed audibly and told him, “You cannot love Tson. You are not Tsong Zee. Only Tsong Zee can love Tson. Our blood rose from its waters. Yours did not. Even those who met bodies here carry in them the blood of another world.”

Rhys glanced at the governor, then back to the Tsong Zee. “Your people originated on this planet? That is your claim?”

Copper-eyed Parsa studied him for a moment, then tilted her head to the left. A second later, almost as an after-thought, she said, “Yes. That is our claim.” Her chin tilted upward on the last word.

Rhys made further mental notes. “If you are the children of this world, why did you leave it?”

To Rhys's astonishment, the entire group of Tsong Zee uttered a beautifully harmonized keening sound, bowing their heads deeply. The spicy scent sharpened.

Rhys waited a moment for the keening to cease, then said, “I did not mean to distress you.”

The Tsong Zee raised their gleaming black faces in unison and Parsa deferred to yet another Speaker—a tall, slender male called Brasn whose near-transparent mane of hair fell well past the sashed and girded waist of his bright garment.

“You did not distress us. It is our ancestors who have brought us distress. It is through their error that no living Tsong Zee has been born on Tson. I shall sing of this,” he said and closed his eyes.

The other Tsong Zee focused their gazes upon him and began to hum a slow-moving pattern of harmonies that washed over the assemblage in soft waves.

Joseph Bekwe opened his mouth to interrupt, but Rhys silenced him with a quick shake of his head.

“Five Tribes,” intoned the Speaker. “Tillers of the soil, Walkers of the land, Traders in goods, Searchers of the earth and sky. We, the last, who search the soul and see it. We are the Five Tribes of Tson.”

“We are the Five Tribes,” intoned the others in harmony. “Those who till the soil hate those who walk the land.”

Brasn's backing chorus trilled suddenly and Parsa chanted, “They trampled our crops, they tore down our fences, they slaughtered our creatures.”

“Those who walked the land hated those who tilled the soil,” sang Brasn, and Parsa responded, “We cut their paths, we damned the streams, we planted the land.”

“Those who walked the land cried to those who traded in goods,” said Brasn.

Now another Tsong Zee joined in—Keere, he was called. “‘Help us against the Tillers, they cried. Help us and you shall profit by our goods.'”

“The Traders helped the Walkers of the land.”

“We will fight the Tillers,” sang Keere. “We must keep open the paths of the land. Such is our trade.”

“They fought,” intoned Brasn. “They fought while the world turned and land was destroyed and crops died and creatures starved. Then, the Tillers cried to those who search the earth and skies.”

Again, Parsa spoke: “‘Help us against the Walkers and the Traders. Help us and you shall profit by our goods.'”

“Some Searchers of the earth helped the Tillers of the soil.”

The original Speaker, Javar, chanted, “The Searchers of the earth will help the Tillers of the soil. We must have the yield of the land. Of such is our search.”

“They fought,” keened Brasn. “And while they fought, the Seers of the Soul prayed and the Searchers of the Sky sought their answers and the world turned and more land was destroyed and more crops died and more creatures starved. Then were people killed.”

The whole group, apprentices and all, burst into a trill of wild agitation punctuated with wails of apparent anguish.

Irrationally, Rhys found himself thinking about shaving again.

Brasn raised his four-fingered hands and brought them all to silence. “There rose a Speaker” —he lifted his chin— “from among the Seers of the Soul. He warned against the fighting. He exhorted the people to peace. Only the Searchers of the Sky listened, for another Speaker” — his head lowered— “rose among the Searchers and the Tillers and denounced him as evil.”

“We killed the Seer!” cried Parsa. “For he spoke against our desires!”

“Now, the Walkers and the Traders looked to the Searchers for one who would deal with them. They found such a one.”

It was Javar's turn. “‘We know of a poison,' he said. “‘A terrible poison. It will destroy the Tillers of the soil for it will destroy the soil.'”

“And the world turned,” chanted Brasn.

“We heard the tale of the poison,” said Parsa, “and we turned to our Searchers. ‘Help us!' we cried. Give to us an equal poison—one that will destroy the Walkers.'”

“We know of a poison,” said Javar. “A terrible poison. It will destroy the Walkers for it will destroy their herds.”

“There arose from the Sky Searchers a Speaker (head up),” Brasn narrated. “He warned against the poisons. He prophesied the ending of the world of Tson by plague. He cried for an end to the war. He cried to the Seers for help. And there arose among the Seers a Tsadrat (word unknown, said the DT) called Kalkt (proper name, said the DT). He exhorted the people to peace before the poison be used. He performed great wonders but, of the people, only the Searchers of the Sky listened—they and some here, some there from among the Tribes. The greatest of the Tribes rose up against him and he went up to the Holy Mountain to hide himself. And the poison was used.”

Again, a soul-rending, ululating cry was released from Tsong Zee throats.

“Death!” cried Brasn.

“Death!” echoed the other Speakers, one after the other.

There was a moment of silence, then Brasn spoke again. “On the ruins of our world, those left living gathered. At the foot of the Holy Mountain, Kalkt gathered them and showed them the wonder that the Searchers of the Sky had wrought for them.”

“Here are ships,” cried Javar. “Here are five great ships to take this people to another world which we have chosen for you. A ship for each Tribe.”

“Must we leave?” cried Parsa.

“May we never return?” asked Keere.

“Then spoke the Tsadrat, Kalkt,” continued Brasn. “He told the people that before they could return, Tson must be purged of its poisons. And, as Tson was purged, so must its people be purified of their prejudices and hatreds. Only when they could work together as a people would they be allowed to return to Tson. And he gave each Tribe a Key to the Most Sacred Shrine which is in the heart of the Heart of the world. And he told them, ‘Only when these Keys are used together will the Shrine which is in the heart of the Heart of the world open. And only when that Shrine is opened by your unified effort will you be worthy to return to your world.'”