Sometimes within the brain's old ghostly house,
I hear, far off, at some forgotten door,
A music and an eerie faint carouse. . . .
—ARCHIBALD MACLEISH
*
For years uncounted, they had lived in the darkness deep in the roots of the mountains. The passing of seasons meant little to them there; and yet they felt the movement of their world about its sun, and the movement of that sun among others. Though their own world had been laid waste, they were aware of other planets among the stars, other forms of intelligence. They felt the passage of thought through the continuum and stirred jealously at life that walked freely on planets of other stars . . . as they themselves had once walked, in another time.
From the grim darkness of their caverns, they watched and listened. There were others coming toward them from the stars, moving through space, and through beneath-space and beyond-space. They came from various directions, the others—slipping through the transient existences that joined the worlds, drawn together along the ripples of the same terrible force that had turned this world into the silent place it was today. They had come together already, some of them, and already they had fought and killed.
The creatures who had no name watched the approach with dark interest—and bided their time. If the others fought again, it would not matter; if there was a winner, it would not matter. When they arrived, there would be no winners—not while the creatures of the darkness survived.
The winds howled up through the mountains, causing the needles in the branch-webs to quiver like spiderfly wings. Moramaharta gazed through the woods, pulling his robes close around him, awed by the power in such a simple thing as the wind. He was reminded of the Gastofer Plateau to the south, where wind and sand relentlessly scoured anything in their path.
Here in the Veil of Meditation, the winds were not so strong; still, they were gustier than usual, even for late autumn. The change of needles was a rippling image from one day to the next—each day a flurry of color: auburn, then gold, and ochre, each color stripped away by the wind almost as it appeared. There would be no blending of color this year, and that was a pity. It was one of the graces of being sequestered in this remote mountain vale, to view the shifting hues of the seasons. Moramaharta tasted the fragrance of the trees as the air billowed through his membranes. The wind bore an aromatic bitterness from fields of red-kernel far to the west. It was not only here that change was in the air; he could smell the ripening of the distant fields.
With a twinge of regret, he turned back toward the hall, walking along the edge of the clearing. The other members of the *Ell* decision-body would be joining him in the chambers and were probably waiting for him now. Still, he would not be hurried. He'd needed to clear his thoughts, to infuse his mind with the spirit of the Veil, this place of concealment from the distractions of the world. It was crucial that perspective be maintained. Sometimes the others forgot that, he thought; to them the Veil was a place of tradition, and little more.
As he neared the hall, he sighted Gwyndhellum and Lenteffier approaching across the clearing. Their robes were whipped tightly about them, their angular heads bent against the wind. "Binder!" called Gwyndhellum, the shorter of the two. Moramaharta sensed urgency. We have been searching for you, he understood Gwyndhellum to say.
"Peace," Moramaharta said, drawing alongside. "Preparing, is what I've been doing."
"Preparing?" Lenteffier asked. "In the woods?"
Moramaharta regarded the *El* thoughtfully. "For the bindings that lie before us, we must start at a point of tranquility. I chose the peace of the woods and the spirit of the valley."
The two studied him wordlessly, but their expressions told a great deal: that they little believed in the spirit of the valley and the peace of the woods, but that they wouldn't deny him his unconventionalities. Gwyndhellum inclined his head in acknowledgment and allowed Moramaharta to precede him into the hall.
They passed through the foyers and into the Inner Circle meditation chamber—a small, dome-ceilinged room with a bowl-shaped hollow at its center encircled by a low railing and benches. It was an austere place, of molded wood from the nearby forest. Moramaharta had always regretted that more had not been done to highlight the wood's natural whorls and lusters. Even bare rough-cut might have pleased him more than the clear, dull preservative that had been used over the wood, which seemed only to diminish its grace. But in this, as in other matters, his thoughts were not those of the others.
They were all here now: Dououraym, the leader, waiting silently; next around the circle, Cassaconntu, darkly absorbed, perhaps already believing that a wrong decision would be made; then Gwyndhellum, and Lenteffier, and Moramaharta, the binder. Dououraym surveyed the rest of the Five and said, "Let it begin."
Moramaharta took up a position at the railing. He waited until the others had ceased stirring, then began centering himself in earnest, gazing down into the meditation space, focusing upon a starburst image etched in the wood at the bottom of the bowl. He let his thoughts flow from his center as he relaxed, let them fill the star and expand into its points, one point for each of the five *Ell*. He felt the thoughts of the others touch his, and he closed his eyes and whispered the words of the binding.
When his eyes opened, they beheld a new focus. Out of the starburst, a living image sprang forth to fill the bowl.
It was a night sky: a panoply of stars, and rising from the mountains in the east, the Anvil of Light, the glowing nebula of interstellar dust and gas that reigned over the winter skies. The image filled the bowl, filled the five minds and drew them together; and Moramaharta began humming a slow, musical adan'dri—at first alone, then with the others. When the last voice had merged with his, a white star brightened and began pulsing within the image of the nebular clouds. The star moved, adrift on the currents of space, and it began spinning.
Moramaharta watched the spinning star and strengthened the adan'dri; and the voices of the Five joined, in a complex chord, which merged to a simpler chord underpinned by a harmonic beat. All eyes focused on the spinning light, the home star, the Hope Star, adrift in space. The star pulsed. The star spun. The voices murmured. The adan'dri, the hum—and the sidan'dri, the image—merged and became a single focus, binding the meditation.
Now Moramaharta undertook the deeper connection, binding their minds for what was to come:
*
Join and remember . . .
*
He encircled the Five with a fine thread of vision and a thread of hearing and a thread of knowing; and he set the sidan'dri image free to evoke the memory, the story that underlay their very purpose here:
*
The beginning of beginnings . . .
*
A tiny world became visible circling the star:
*
Reaching out . . .
*
Threads of life whispered out from that tiny world, seeking a second home, and at last finding a new star, a new world among the interstellar clouds. The threads tightened, joining the two worlds together; and life flowed from the homeworld to the daughter world, and the bond grew strong:
*
Peril unknowing . . .
*
With a terrible thunderclap, an invisible force tore the joined stars apart, destroying the bond. The home star blinked in and out of view among the clouds, then vanished:
*
Hope passing into the night . . .
*
The meditation reverberated with an emptiness none could forget—the loss of the home star and the ancient catastrophe:
*
Surviving, but broken . . .
*
Struggling in famine and hardship, the Ell embraced a genetic Change—the tar'dyenda, altering themselves for survival in a time of desperation. The night sky burned a feverish red, glowing with reflected fires as the memory of the cataclysm seared the heart; and then all color passed out of the vision, leaving it altered and . . . wrong. Living, but wrong . . . missing a vital element:
*
Seeking once more . . .
*
From the orphaned daughter world, rays of light sparkled outward, searching:
*
That which was lost will be found.
*
Years spun by, and millennia, until one spark of light penetrated the clouds—which parted to reveal the Hope Star.
And suddenly the inner voice changed:
*
With hope comes peril.
*
Starbursts jarred the image as an enemy, the Outsider, was encountered in the very moment of triumph. The picture froze:
*
And now comes time
*
to judge.
*
. . . and Moramaharta felt the thoughts of the Circle swarming out as he wove the threads into the binding of judgment.
Dououraym spoke. (From the (fleet), word . . .) An image streamed into view: from the Lost World expedition, inferences from transient-space monitors—a large Outsider presence was approaching. And the question repeated: (From Or!ge, should the landing be made as planned?) The images swirled about: encounters with the enemy's robot fighting units, interfering with plans for the first landing . . .
(Observations . . .)
They came quickly, from around the Circle:
(We must know—is it the Lost World, or do we fight in vain?)
(The landing party must judge.)
(At what risk from the enemy?)
(Observe first. Learn the intent.)
(Of the enemy? It is clear . . .)
(Is the world worth this war?)
(If it is right . . .)
(We must know . . .)
Dououraym led the discussion but let it flow, while Moramaharta maintained the binding, keeping it balanced as though on a fine, invisible gyroscope. When Dououraym spoke, the power rose and blossomed; when Moramaharta spoke, it tightened. As the discussion deepened, so too did the meditation; and the words quickened and the dialogue grew denser, until it blurred into a single race of thought—the Five become as One. The thought brightened and burned, and out of the One came a decision, in Dououraym's voice: (The expedition and the world must be protected . . . the landing is delayed . . . Or!ge to observe the enemy and learn, and rejoin at first news.)
An instant later, the furious energy began to dissipate. The images darkened, and the meditation parted like a fabric of smoke. Only the core of the sidan'dri remained visible, the pulsing Hope Star. Moramaharta spoke the words of release: (The joining and the judging are done.)
The sidan'dri vanished.
Moramaharta blinked and raised his gaze to the others. Dououraym stared back calmly; Lenteffier half-closed his eyes in approval, Gwyndhellum in puzzlement. Only Cassaconntu showed no expression, and he was the first to rise, walking impassively out of the chamber, his robe scarcely stirring around him. One by one, the others followed, until Moramaharta was left alone with the silence and his own troubled contemplations.