The Fresco (7 page)

So, I did that, and for the next four days, I joined the school campesi and hoed weeds out of the grain rows. This was dirtier than the former work, and it was harder, too. It was so hot we all panted, water dripping from our mouth parts, but I enjoyed it more than the crèche, being out in the sun and hearing the birds arguing in the trees at the field side. On the fourth day, the superintendent sent me to the greenhouses, where I did similar work, pulling weeds out of beds of seedlings. Then I spent two days learning how the records were kept, and another few days helping the record keeper. It was interesting enough for the nine or ten days I was there, and I learned a lot from the things I asked people.

Then it was back to the selector again, who told someone to ascend one level and go to the fourth selector on the right, and I did that. It was like the first one all over again. Le gave me things to do, le watched closely while I did them, but le didn't seem to care how well I did them. I spent a cluster cleaning the laboratories. I spent a cluster at the theater, helping paint sets. I worked with a whole string of finisi, an artist in paint, a dancer, a designer of costumes. I was sent up another level and spent a long, long time directing a crew of ten-year-olds who were planting seedlings on the sanctuary hill as an autumn duty. As soon as their toe hooks fall off, when their wings begin to grow, around age six, all children have autumn duties and spring duties, things that are done for the community. I had planted my share of seedlings between ages six and eleven.

Sometimes when I had completed a stint of work, they'd let some time go by, then send me back to spend another cluster doing the same thing, so I ended up back at the agri
cultural center, helping with records a couple of times, and at the theater, doing all kinds of things. On the fifth level, I attended lectures on the confederation and the member races, the egg-differentiated Credons, the swamp-living Oumfuz, the fearsome Xankatikitiki and many others. When I got up to the sixth level, there were sessions I don't remember very well. They gave me juice to drink that made me dizzy, and then asked strange questions that made my head ache. Then there were other times when my body felt certain ways, and they measured what it wanted and what it needed. Some of that was embarrassing, for I could feel myself wanting and unwanting.

We are not supposed to want a specific role in life. Opinions of that kind are not considered useful. We are selected to live as what we are, body and mind. The whole process of selection is centered upon determining what each of us really is. One of the strangest things I have encountered on your world, dear Benita, is that many of your people have no idea who they really are but many ridiculous ideas about what they are expected to be, plus many religious convictions about what they should be, although nobody is! One should not want to be anything but what one is, because it creates unhappiness. If one cannot dance, one should not be a dancer. If one cannot paint, one should not be an artist. It defies good sense. One should not be sexual if one cannot enjoy both the process and the product, and if there is no place for the product, one should stop being sexual. One should want to do what one can do most easily and most happily.

Often I was allowed to go home for evening gathering, and afterwards I sometimes went down to the river. There was a patch of short grass there with a playswing to hang babies on, and a bench for others. My nootch used to hang me there in the evenings, while she rested on the bench with a glass or two of viber. It was a good place to sit and think about things. So, this one night I had just settled myself in the swing when my nootch came down the path and sat on the bench, looking at me.

“Well?” ke asked.

“Well what, Nootch?”

“How does someone think it's going?”

I laughed. “One hasn't a clue.”

“What has someone liked the most?” ke said firmly. “Tell someone!”

“Most? The time in the theater, one supposes. One felt more useful there than anywhere else. And one likes the thought of acting.”

“Ah,” ke hummed between ker teeth. “And what has someone liked the least?”

“Cleaning the laboratories. One learned a lot, though. Just by listening. And of course, one asks questions.”

“One day someone will question oneself into trouble,” ke said darkly, frowning at me. “Ta, Chiddy, one has such hopes for someone.”

This was not something a nootch should say. Hoping was like wanting. Inappropriate! “Nootch-isi,” I said, “hei!”

Ke wiped ker ducts. “All right, all right. Someone shouldn't have said it. But still. Remember this, Chiddy. Someone will have learned to be wise when someone knows how to keep someone's mouth parts fastened.”

That upset me more than anything that had happened with the selectors because it upset the equilibrium I'd managed to hold on to that far. We're not allowed to choose or want, but of course, we all do! Nootch-isi's leakings washed all my resolve away, and there I was, choosing! Wanting! Or not wanting! I did not want to be an inceptor. I did not want to be a receptor. I did not want…oh, certainly did not want to be a nootch. One may love one's nootch, but one can see how difficult it is to be a good one! Of the hundred or so other things one was allowed to be, there were only a few my soul leaned toward. I would not mind greatly being a worker, a campes; or a craftsman, a finis. I would not mind greatly being a proffe, a doctor or engineer. The one thing I wanted not to be was an athyco. Not that I'd ever met one, just that everyone said the life of an athyco was the hardest life one could have.

So, when on the morrow the selector told me to climb the stairs all the way to the top and report to the curator of
the Fresco, it sent a thrill of trepidation all the way to my toes.

The selector was watching me closely, the way they always did. “What?” selector asked.

“Ah…one has heard…no one should go there except…someone who knows…”

“If a selector sends someone, someone can go there. Around back, door marked
Staff only.
Just walk in and ask for the curator.”

At that point, I was on the sixth level, so it wasn't a long climb, but it felt like I was trying to scale Mount Ever-ice. I was actually gasping for breath when I got to the top, and I stood outside the staff door a long time, letting my gills stop fluttering and my hearts stop pounding before I walked in.

The curator was a tall person in a white gown with a blue apron and cowl. I bowed, muttering, “One regrets not knowing how to address someone.”

“Call me Curator,” it said. “My pronouns are fourth level, ai, ais, and aisos. Come, I will show someone the Fresco!”

Ai took me down a hall, and up a flight of stairs, and through a narrow little door into a gallery above the vast circular floor of the House. The gallery was a narrow ring above the Fresco and below the dome. Though other memories of that time may have faded, one remembers that experience clearly. The floor pave is of compact metamorphic limestone of a lucent ivory color, brought into golden or rosy flushes by the slightest light, the rays making radiant shadows that wander across the polished surface as though searching for the luminous realm from which they have come. Their motion is caused by the wind moving branches of the great trees above the high windows topping the dome, as I came to know later, but the first impression was of a clear stream in which living, questing, nondimensional beings swam. Or, that is how one later described what one then, wordlessly, saw.

Across from the tiny door through which we had entered stood the three great cast metal doors, each between its protecting columns and surmounted by its individual architrave, their surfaces brought into high relief by the same fugitive
lights that wandered the floor. The metal was the dark brown of good soil, not shadowed but deliberately darkened to separate it from the room itself. Between the middle door and the right-hand one was the first section of the fresco,
The Meeting.
Though one had never seen it, one knew that it portrayed Mengantowhai leaning on his staff and reaching out to the Jaupati people, his angelic countenance lit from within as they held out their hands in awed wonder and incipient friendship. Beginning from that point and sweeping sunwise about the great hall, the sixteen other panels of the Fresco told the tale of Mengantowhai's labors on behalf of the people he had adopted, of their joy and progress, of their tragic overthrow by the envious Pokoti, and of Mengantowhai's eventual martyrdom at their hands. Between the left hand and middle doors was the final section: The Martyrdom of Kasiwees. Kasiwees was the last Jaupati, shown kneeling as he prayed for Mengantowhai's return.

Mengantowhai, shortly before his death, had selected Canthorel as an athyci, and these episodes from Mengantowhai's life had been Canthorel's inspiration for the Fresco. One knew what the Fresco showed, however, only because one had been told. The Fresco itself was almost as dark as the metal doors—you would call them bronze—and no detail of the painting could be seen with a casual glance, for the place was lit, as it always had been, by hundreds of votive candles set into ornamental frames of iron and brass, and the soot from centuries of such candles had settled upon the divine paintings like a thick varnish, masking the colors and obscuring the figures. The entire room was cleaned annually, and the floors were scrubbed and polished daily. The painting, however, could not be touched. One knew which panel one was looking at only by referring to the small numbers, one through seventeen, carved into the stone beneath them.

In the earliest years the Fresco had been cleaned and even repaired from time to time, but in recent centuries the curators had forbidden any further attempts to do so. After all, they said, the scholar Glumshalak had copied every detail of the Fresco when he wrote his great Compendium. The cu
rators of successive ages had annotated the Compendium. In addition, other scholars and visitors had made sketches of various panels during the early years. The danger of cleaning the panels far outweighed the pleasure of seeing them clearly.

For pilgrims, the usual observance at the House of the Fresco was to enter from outside by the middle door, to turn left and make the entire circuit of the hall, stopping before each number to chant the appropriate passage from a pilgrimage book, of which there were several: Glumshalak's Authorized Version, the Revised Pistach Version, the (some said excessively) Modernized Version, in contemporary language. When the people stood before panel seven,
The Adoration
, or panel fifteen,
The Blessing of Canthorel
, they knew what was shown. The very obscurity of the Fresco, evidence of its antiquity, could be considered part of its mystique.

My first experience verified this. The smell of scented smoke, the fugitive lights, the shifting gleams of polished stone, the mysterious paintings from which, in some lights, a face seemed to smile or speak, a hand reached out to summon, indicating here I am, look at me, observe my life. Within moments, however, I noticed something else as well. Curators entered the great room, lit candles, put out others, took them away, and they did not even look at the room. People came in the door, turned to their left and began the circuit of the room, reading the verses from whatever pilgrimage book they had obtained or inherited, and they never looked up. I reacted to this as though a bell had rung somewhere inside me, a warning: see, notice, they too have had their first impression, and the first impression has been their last. They do not see any longer. Will you, too, learn not to see?

“The first painting,” said the curator, “the one between the middle and right-hand doors, is the meeting of Mengantowhai and the Jaupati. In the background are three wine jars assaulted by amorphous figures. The implied teaching is?”

“I'm sorry, Curator, but I have no idea.”

“That's all right. Someone will learn. The teaching of the
amorphous forms assaulting the three wine jars is that Pistach may not carry intoxicants on journeys. This insight is gained through the juxtaposition of this section with the one preceding,” ai pointed to the section between the left-hand and middle doors,
“The Martyrdom of Kasiwees
, and from the section following,” ai pointed to the right,
“The Descent of the Steadfast Docents.”

“Yes, Curator,” I murmured, marking the words down in my mind without a hint as to their meaning.

“From the one we get the idea of
journey
, for the journey into death's realm is the greatest one, and from the other we get the idea of
guidance
, for a docent guides others. This is reinforced by the secondary symbols, in which Kasiwees also guides us and the docents, by descending, also journey. Since it is wine jars being assaulted, the reference is to mastering intoxication. Thus it is clear that the meaning is that we receive guidance not to use wine during journeys. Does someone follow?”

I followed, though it seemed to me at the time we could have as well received “wisdom” as the meaning of the docents, or even “failing-ones,” for a descent often means a failing. This might imply that the three amorphous forms could be the well-known trialur—frailty, futility, and forgetfulness—seeking to overturn the urns of knowledge, this reading reinforced by Kasiwees' assassination which certainly upset the fount of learning. Since the curator's interpretation took no account of the identity of the three amorphous beings, I preferred an interpretation which identified them. And the things being assaulted or overturned were just as much urns as they were wine jars, for all one could see was shadowy shapes with a kind of yellow haze around them. Having heard all my short life of the teachings of the Fresco, I was amazed at how impenetrable the depictions actually were.

“Tell me what someone is thinking,” demanded the curator.

Without thinking, I blurted out that the forms were very difficult to analyze, what with all the soot, and ended with, “So it would seem we would gain better appreciation of the
greatness of Canthorel if the Fresco were to be cleaned.” Or course, it didn't come out that way, precisely, not at age twelve. It was a good deal more prolix and less pertinent, but the curator got the idea.