Wulfsyarn: A Mosaic Page 9

  What was there for me to do? I cannot read dreams. There seemed no point in waiting like a body guard while my charge slept. I decided to explore Lily’s domain. I let myself drift through the door.

  The morning was well advanced and the sun had disappeared. A light rain was coming in from the sea and bending over the tops of leaves and running down the trunks and stems and entering the soil. This is not good weather for machines but I have survived much worse—much, much worse—in my time. I rose up through the branches of a Builder Tree and let its thin outer fronds slide over my domed bulk. In the top canopy of the tree I paused and scanned. From this height I could see over the walls of Lily’s Garden and up the hillside of the Pacifico Monastery. There were people bustling. It was an ordinary day.

  Scanning round, I could see the hills of the garden and the varied patterns of trees. In the middle, standing tall,

  rose the shape of the Pectanile. It was placed on a small plateau almost on the crest of a hill. Dampened by the rain, the stonework was creamy. I drifted toward it, noticing the many tracks which ran through the garden, all leading to the Pectanile hill. Many trees were in blossom. There were rhododendrons, their massive flowers glowing like lanterns, red and purple and pink. Beside them were the blazing orange spires of the Flamboyant and the deep blue clusters of the Mizzen Tree. This is a very rare tree and difficult to grow, I am told. It comes from a distant and very cold world and the tree is believed to be telepathic! I have never been able to understand that, a telepathic plant. However, it is the human confreres who have reported this and they should know for they deal in such kinds of contact. I have it on record that one confrere, Jerichim by name, came to believe that one of the Mizzen Trees hated him and despite the entreaties of his friends and the deep counsel of his training, he went out and hung himself from one of its high branches. That means that he must have climbed. That argues compulsion coming from somewhere. On such things I ponder, trying to understand the human. I spent several hours drifting through these trees, trying to sense their natures. But as always in such quests I discovered nothing beyond the obvious facts that they have life and resonate.

  I drifted to the hill where the Pectanile stands and then cruised over its open mouth. I could see down inside it to where its pool of rain-water reflected the gray sky. It reflected me, like the face of a giant warrior peering over the rim of some ancient fortification or staring into his wineglass before battle.

  From this aspect the Pectanile looked like a plant, a Pitcher Plant perhaps which gathers water in order to drown its victims or a Sala in which the Tallines keep fish. Ah! That similarity could be another origin of the Pectanile. I have never seen that noted before.

  There was sudden movement below me. One of the Talline women clambered out of the cave mouth of the Pectanile and down the steps. She jumped down to the ground and looked up and saw me and screamed and ran away into the bushes. I had disturbed her in her meditation. She had been resting inside the artifact as part of her cure, perhaps staring into the rain-water pool, when my savage face appeared.

  I meant no harm. I was not spying. Why do people so often regard the unexpected or the strange as threatening?

  I moved on. I drifted west and flew over the river which here passed through a narrow gorge. There were limestone shapes on either side of the gorge where small tributaries entered the main stream. The rock had been carved into shapes like animals by the rushing streams. Perhaps Talline artistry had also played its part for the Tallines love finding patterns in Nature.

  There must have been minerals present too for the river became a bright, greenish blue as it flowed over the limestone and swirled in the pools. I explored the caves, many of which were large enough for me to enter. There were Talline drawings inside. I was surprised, though I should not have been. When I thought about this afterward I concluded that I could think of no place more apt for the frank depictions of Talline life than a cave where water flows. I made a thorough photographic survey.

  Beyond the gorge the river began to meander and became a marsh which lapped and quaked through many low arches and so flowed out to the sea. Seagulls were feeding with a shrill clamor, beating the water with their wings as they competed for the small eels in the rich ooze. I paused in my wanderings to watch. At that moment as I looked down on the wheeling birds, as I drifted high over the garden wall and came in sight of the sea, Lily called me. Wilberfoss was waking up.

  The waking minutes of a human are precious for in those moments a human may utter ideas from the deepest part of the mind. Invariably, .unless specially trained, the human cannot remember the moment of dreaming. Yet Wilberfoss might need those involuntary thoughts to help him with his decision.

  I flew like a thrown rock the short distance from the sea to the inner garden wall where Wilberfoss’s cell was located. Lily was heaving herself over the threshold reminding me of one of the old automatic incendiary tanks which we used to see in the War of Ignorance. Of course, their technology is similar.

  As I swooped down, I noticed how well this cell was constructed. It gave an impression of smallness, of tidy domesticity and of great antiquity. Yet Lily could enter quickly and maneuver. I began to suspect then, and subsequently verified, that this simple cell was in reality a complex hospital room with facilities to cater for Tallines, humans and Close Metabolism aliens, should the need arise.

  Wilberfoss was still asleep but turning restlessly and he had his hands up over his ears as though to stop a voice he did not want to hear. Then he put his arms to his side and came awake peacefully. He stared at us for a moment, without comprehension, and then laughed. “I have woken in many strange places,” he said, “but never to be met with such care and attention. Medoc had better watch out. You’ll ruin me.”

  “You are hungry,” said Lily in her matter-of-fact way. She has no humor. A section of her tin belly slid open to reveal a tray on which were cutlets, steamed fish, bread and a beaker of hot black tuvu which is mildly intoxicating and which the Tallines drink at all hours.

  It is made from a variety of seaweed.

  Wilberfoss received the tray and began to eat with gusto. Lily watched him. Her eyes are twin lamps set high on her frame. She was simply glad to see him eat. I noted that there was a kind of glee about him.

  When he had finished Lily received the tray and dishes. “Will you rest again or take mild exercise?” she questioned. “Mild exercise helps the digestive tract and is advis—”

  “All right. Mild exercise it is. A walk in the garden.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?” I asked, bobbing in the air.

  “Not for the time being,” he replied, and I had the impression that Wilberfoss was deliberately excluding me. I decided to press my case.

  “I have great powers of analysis,” I said. “I can detect patterns.”

  Wilberfoss looked at me and nodded. “I am aware of your powers, Wulf, and when I need you, rest assured I will ask you. But at present I need to be alone. I have no thoughts. I want to ride my indecision. I will be strange, but I will eventually know my mind.” With that he swung from his bed.

  Wilberfoss dressed himself in loose Talline robes. These allow a lot of air to the body. He was ready in minutes. He walked outside and followed the path which led back to the river. When he came to the Savior Trees he branched off the path and climbed a short steep hill at the top of which were stoops of sweet-smelling bracken. He trod an area flat and settled down, lying with his back against a tree and his legs spread. In the distance, perhaps half a mile from him, was the shape of the Pectanile.

  He saw that I had followed him, drifting at a discreet distance, and he waved me to go away, as though he were shooing a dog from a vegetable patch. I had no choice but to obey. I was not a spy.

  So let me tell you. During the entire time that Wilberfoss was in the garden, he never once asked me for help. I did the occasional letter for him but that was all. He never once shared with me his thinking, and that in itself
, in retrospect, was sinister.

  Two days later, as you know, I was called away to discover what was happening with Medoc and why she had posted the declaration of divorce.

  When I returned to the garden I found that Wilberfoss had indeed changed. He had taken to walking about the garden naked. His sleep patterns were erratic and sometimes he slept outside, with just a blanket over him. He rolled up close to the Katarapa, with its pink and white flowers glowing over him.

  I have said before that Lily’s Garden is an ancient Talline garden. In combination its trees and shrubs can have an awesome effect on the human metabolism. The smell of some leaves can bring sweet dreams. Others burned and the smoke inhaled can induce trance. There are glades of silence which I cannot explain but where there are no sounds but the flexing of the trees. It is as though such areas were surrounded by a fine membrane which filters out any distracting sounds. There are places of moist shadow where the sun never reaches and the plants grow pale. Occasionally, especially close to the Pectanile, you will come across small clearings in which flowers have been planted. This is an old custom and one which is now felling into disuse but in the days before the garden became part of the Pacifico Monastery, the garden was a place for lovemaking. Those who felt their lovemaking had been particularly successful or significant would often return to the garden and plant flowers and sometimes vegetables. Some parts of the garden are left wild and if you were to ask a native Talline such as Medoc about these areas she would say that they are for the old spirits. Anyone can walk there, but there is no planting and no cutting. Many parts of this planet remain wild. On the rare but significant occasions when a Talline commits suicide, it is invariably in one of the wild areas and frequently in one of the gardens.

  I mention all this merely to document that Wilberfoss wandered throughout the entire garden. He entered the wild parts where I could not follow him and came out stung or bruised or with an ankle twisted. He lay on his back in the sunshine in the flower glades, indecent as a dog. He climbed into the Pectanile and spent hours beside its quiet pool. And all the time, though I could not gather his words, he was talking to himself. He was, of course, seeking out some mystical experience which would vindicate or sterilize his invitation to become the Captain of the Nightingale.

  Well, it is an old saying among humans that if you go looking for a mystical experience you will surely find one. And nowhere better to go looking than in a Talline garden.

  As Wilberfoss identified with the spirit of the garden, so he slowly shed some of the trappings of civilization and became simpler and more concentrated. This is the essence of retreat, is it not: that everything becomes more completely charged and more tranquil? The narcotics floating in the air of the garden helped too, no doubt. And just as day follows night and fruit follows blossom so Wilberfoss achieved his mystical experience which he took to be affirmation. Let us acknowledge also that if ever a man were prone to mystical visitation, that man was Jon Wilberfoss.

  ★ ★ ★

  Before coming to this let me tell you what I saw. It was my love of history and hence my concern with cause and effect which made me explore why Wilberfoss had been chosen. I considered that if I could answer that question I would be close to understanding human motivation. What did this man Wilberfoss have that other men did not? He was a fine pilot, but there were hundreds such. He was intelligent, but intelligence is a commonplace. He had, as we subsequently discovered, an interesting and passionate past, but so have many. He had reached a point in his life when he was starting to ask questions about purposes and meanings (and that I am sure is significant), but there are many such. What, I wondered, made him special? Could I see it? Would I recognize it if I saw it?

  Well, the events I am about to describe may provide a partial answer: certainly they made me feel the inadequacy of my metal shanks and the dull spirituality of my biocrystalline brain.

  On a sunny morning after rain, Wilberfoss was sitting outside his room whittling on a stick. There were many sticks about as the previous night there had been a gale and trees and shrubs were lodged and broken. He looked completely at peace: a strong man, astride a stump, relaxed and yet well-knit and ready. There came a noise from a thicket, a rattling followed by a mewing, and anyone who lived on that world would recognize the sound. It was a sandar, an eight-legged, grub-like creature which at maturity can reach the size of a domestic cat. A sandar spends most of its life burrowing inside trees where it can anchor with its mouth, fringed with saw-like teeth, while it inserts its long black tongue into the main sap lines. But they can be dangerous. They are aggressive. They can spit venom and they can climb with amazing agility, sometimes humped like a squirrel, sometimes spread with all legs stretched, a bit like a bat. The rattle is a warning. The mewing is an expression of anger, I am told. In combination they signify a creature that will attack without any provocation and which is to be avoided.

  Wilberfoss paused in his whittling and listened with his head cocked over on one side. The sound continued, growing in intensity, and it was obvious that the sandar was trapped or incapacitated in some way. A Talline would have left the area or looked about for a spear, but Wilberfoss stood up and put his knife to one side. He glanced around to make sure that he was not seen and then walked toward the edge of the clearing. He did not see me for I was high in an oak tree and hidden in leaves. I guessed at what he intended to do and sent a message to Lily warning her that she might be needed. She was at the far end of the garden and began hurrying back to us.

  Wilberfoss walked directly toward the rattling and mewing and I could hear him whistling between his teeth and murmuring a song. He parted the branches of a fallen glue-pot tree which showed the peculiar stunting which is characteristic of sandar infestation. Wilberfoss held back the branches and revealed the sandar. I could see it. It was partly crushed against the trunk of the glue-pot tree by a branch from the neighboring tree. Two of its short legs were broken and hung useless. Its mouth was open and its ring of teeth exposed. The black tongue was coiled inside the wide mouth. It was ready to spit. Sandars can spit and they can lunge and bite. The mouth closes over its prey which is then killed with a bite and ejaculated, for the sandar dines solely on tree sap.

  Wilberfoss reached in and touched the sandar. Folly. I rose from my perch in the oak fully expecting to see Wilberfoss reeling back with poison in his eyes and the sandar locked like some monstrous growth onto his arm or his chest or worst, his throat. I once saw the remains of a dog that had been killed by a sandar. It looked as though it had been flayed with wire. But there was no convulsion among the branches.

  Wilberfoss slid one arm into the narrow space between the sandar’s pudgy legs and supported its body. This brought his face close to its blind open mouth. With his other arm he bent back the branch of the tree that pinned the creature. The branch yielded and he lifted the sandar free. It held to his arm with its legs and its mouth closed like a button.

  I retired and buried myself in the leaves of the oak and watched. Wilberfoss carried the sandar to the stump where he had been working and set it down. He touched the two legs and I saw the creature writhe but it still did not bite or spit. There was little he could do for the broken legs but I saw him examine them with his fingers. Once he touched his fingers to his mouth and then rubbed his saliva into the creased skin. While doing this he held the sandar as a woman holds a baby when she is relieving it of wind.

  At that moment Lily came trundling into the garden at full speed, her twin tracks churning the gravel of the path. Wilberfoss called for her to be quiet. She stopped and her twin lamps surveyed him. “Are you hurt by the sandar?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied. And then his eyes narrowed and he looked at her sharply. “How did you know that I had found a sandar?” he asked.

  “Wulf reported you were in danger,” she replied artlessly. I do not know if she understands what a lie is. Lying is hard for machines, even for cunning wordsmiths like myself.

  Wilberfo
ss looked around the clearing. “Come out, Wulf, wherever you are hiding,” he called and, of course,

  I obeyed. I emerged from the oak and lowered down to soil level. “If you are so interested in what I am doing, why not come close? But not too close. I don’t want you to frighten it.”

  Wilberfoss selected some sticks from the ground and split them and shaped them into short white splints. He spoke to Lily and she obligingly handed over some white bandages. Carefully but deftly he tied up the wounded legs while the creature lay like something stunned or in ecstatic trance, its mouth opening and closing slowly.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” I asked as he finished and set the creature on its leg?. He watched it for a few seconds with his fingers resting on its head. He did not speak but picked the sandar up carefully and carried it back to the glue-pot tree. He placed it in the tree where it could squirm into one of its several burrows and there rest and feed.

  Wilberfoss came back wiping his hands. Some venom had leaked onto him. Lily offered a napkin which he accepted.

  “They taught us a lot when I joined the Gentle Order,” he replied. “Splints and tourniquets and such.”

  Splints and tourniquets! He chose to deliberately misunderstand me. Where I wondered had he learned to charm animals? The truth, as I realized later, was that he had not learned. It was a gift. Some days after this event I chanced to hover close to the glue-pot tree where the sandar was sequestered. It registered me and spat at me. Thus, a creature that did not have enough intelligence to distinguish between an animal and a machine, could nevertheless respond to the will and affection of a human. That required thinking about.

  After this event, there were many other occasions when I was able to observe Wilberfoss’s canny ability with creatures. I will recount only one more for it has some interesting philosophy.

  We were by the river. This must have been two weeks after Wilberfoss entered the garden and as far as I could see he was living the life of a lotus eater and did not seem concerned with coming to a decision. Oh, I know all about procrastination in humans. Wilberfoss sat naked on a rock with his feet in the stream. He was perfectly still, like a stranded tree trapped after a flood. He was whistling softly and staring into the deeper part of the rippling water.