Psychologists and theologians make much of Benadek's unwitting becoming. Moralists delight in his discomforts and vacillations, as he struggles to remain unbecome. Does man truly desire to be not man, but a beast? Are the unbecome beasts? Bigots insist so, but Benadek and Achibol, herein, are no mere symbolsthey are human beings. Humans, yet unbecome.
Perhaps Achibol's attitude provides a key: the issue is not becoming, but when to become, how to prepare for it and, remembering Dispucket, what not to become. Achibol provides the boy with Images of Stability * much as a mother might for an infant in the throes of early metamorphosisa holding action until Mind has caught up with Body. But Achibol, Earth-tied as Wandag** herself, is a poor guide, and no mother, and cannot himself change . . .
(Saphooth, Project Director)
"End dictation," Saphooth told his AI. "Provide a printout and hold the soft copy pending my final approval."
Should he have said more? The whole issue of becoming was distasteful. It was difficult to keep his feelings from showing, even in two short paragraphs. No, it's enough. I'll put my speculations elsewhere and if there are greater revelations, I'll be ready to exploit them . . .
"Dictation," he ordered. "File name, `Reflections of a Mythographer,' personal access only. Begin.
Despite renewed interest in the one-world hypothesis of human origins stimulated by the biocybes' tales, its proponents must overcome one seemingly insuperable hurdle. For every "human" somatotype there is an "origin world" with a fossil sequence from slime, sulfur springs, or sun-warmed shallows, through nonsentient forms, and culminating in literate, technological, and finally star-faring sentients.
He paused for breath. "Display," he commanded the AI. Glowing letters formed against a blank wall, and his eyes darted rapidly across them. Where did those quotation marks come from? he wondered. The AI was remarkably sensitive to inflections. What do I consider "human"? Shall I delete the marks? No, this isn't for publicationat least not now. Let them stand.
No longer so unsophisticated that we can explain away fossil shells in mountaintop rocks as traps laid by trivial-minded deities, we must consider all the evidence: the fossils, and these new "myths" that seem to contradict them.
Most one-worlders come from religious backgrounds. I, however, am constrained by the ancient methodology of science. A workable hypothesis must encompass all data and contradict none.
Fact: the biocybes imply a single origin-world and a single somatic expression not unlike my own. No! Delete that last phrase, after "expression."
Fact: incontrovertible fossil evidence shows humanity to be a melding of many evolutions, a melding presumably brought about by the independent evolution of the ability to become.
Is there a way to unify these opposites besides the "official" position of MYTHIC *? The intuition of a lifetime spent among these myths and stories tells me there must be. It is a frightening intuition, spurred by a poem I learned as a child, a variation on the Wandag tale . . ."
WANDAGA Myth of Achibol
One day Achibol was walking in the forest
The dark Lomba-eh forest.
He crossed a small stream,
And Wandag of the stream clutched his feet;
Mud grasped Achibol's feet and said
"Give me what you have, that is mine!"
Achibol became angry,
But Wandag did not hear his curses;
Wandag of moving water quenched Achibol's
curses;
Wandag of the wet forest quenched them with
leaves and moss,
And Achibol's feet remained in her grip,
For he would not give Wandag what he had,
that was hers.
In the forest walked Benadek;
Benadek walked in the Lomba-eh forest
And the Sun followed him;
Dena-afa the Sun rode on his shoulder
In the forest by the stream Wandag.
Benadek saw Achibol;
He saw Achibol's feet in Wandag's mouth
And he asked Wandag
"Why do you hold this stick man?"
And Wandag said "I am mud, and this
one is mine."
Then Benadek addressed Achibol.
"What do you have that is Wandag's?
What will you give Wandag to please her?
What do you hold that is of her?"
Achibol held out a coin, and said
"From mud came this bright gold.
To mud I will return it."
Achibol threw down the yellow gold,
And Wandag let go his feet.
Benadek took the stick man's hand
And pulled him away.
Thus Achibol was freed of Mud and Water,
But his wet, dirty shoes shamed him,
And he was angered by his empty purse.
Achibol in his pride caused the coin to rise;
From mud to his outstretched hand came the
bright gold,
And Wandag was angered,
But Mud and Water could not rise to take
it back.
Achibol had cheated Wandag.
He held in his hand that which was Mud's.
Benadek saw that and he rebuked the stick
man, saying
"Did I pull you from Mud's grasp?
"Did you give her the golden coin?"
And Achibol pushed him into the stream.
Benadek, blessed and pure, became a
water-bug
And came ashore still dry.
Then Achibol knew he was Benadek, first
of men,
And bowed down and said "What must I do?"
Benadek commanded him "Return to
Wandag what is hers:
Give Mud's child to Mud.
Give the child of Water to Water.
And spit water into Mud."
This Achibol did;
The round of gold threw he,
And he spit in the stream.
But Achibol was still angry.
As Wandag swallowed what was hers,
Achibol took Vine, rooted in Earth
And bound Benadek with it.
He again caused Water to give up the coin,
And it gleamed bright in his hand.
Then Achibol the stick-man cut Benadek's
member from him
And mocked the Pure One with it,
And cast it down into Mud.
Benadek's member became a small snake;
It crossed Wandag's face and crawled over
Earth.
The snake that was Benadek's Member bit
Achibol's foot
And caused Achibol to fall down.
Benadek became a greater snake,
And he crawled free of Vine.
Unbound, Benadek gathered the stick-man in
his coils
And crushed him,
And Achibol died.
Benadek became a stick-man then.
He picked up his member in one hand;
He picked up Mud in the other hand
And he made fast his member with Mud.
Then Benadek went into the forest.
Then Benadek left Achibol,
And Dena-afa rode with him;
Dena-afa, Sun, followed Benadek,
And Achibol's curses were not heard.
In Mud lay Achibol,
And Mud took him,
And Benadek the stick-man walked away.
from Salist'efen Myths in Translation
Midicor IV
Vol. 234a unit 38887,
Database ref. XCd 3992
The next day brought them to the southernmost edge of the swampy valley, where they filled their water barrel at a spring splashing from a rocky outcrop. Benadek lugged the wooden container up the slope, and immersed it in the pool at the spring's source. He saw his distorted image in the water. Remembering Sylfie's remarks about his incipient beard, he withdrew the cask and waited for the ripples to die.
He expected changes, but the face that peered from the water was no stranger's. The dark fuzz on his chin and upper lip was a sinister shadow. His eyes were dark, deeper-set than he remembered. His cheekbones flared, giving him a gaunt air. With a bit more beard and darker skin he might have been a young version of . . . Achibol himself. His appearance shocked him. I'm going to look like him? At least his face was a man's, not a boy's. If only the rest of him would catch up.
He related his discovery to Achibol, who said there were few others Benadek could have modeled himself after for better effect. The way he said it, though, seemed to imply that Benadek had chosen to pattern his visage after his master.
"That's the subject of your next lesson," Achibol said. "Your earlier changing led me to suspect you shared Dispucket's talent." That sent chills up and down Benadek's ribs. "It's no chance resemblanceyou're patterning yourself after me because you haven't learned control. To survive, you must learn it."
"Why now, Master? If this . . . talent . . . has lain in me since birth, why only now does it plague me?"
Achibol recognized accusation in the lad's words. "You think I've triggered it? Think, boy. How long before we met did you find yourself becoming obsessed with poots? One change presaged the other. Besides, how do you know what changes you may have effected within yourself, unknowingly? Do you remember your father's aspect? Your mother's? How like them were you, or how like other urchins?" He shrugged. "No matter. Change is upon you, and you must deal with it. Shall we begin?"
They had gone half the length of the morass, and had an equal distance to travelmore or perhaps less depending on the routes they chose, on the wind's force and direction.
Benadek had been at his lessons for three days, with no impression of progress. He missed Sylfie. She had retired to the boat's cramped, humid cabin, and allowed no one but Teress to see her. Benadek knew she was ill, but Achibol would not speak of it, and the lad refused to ask anything of Teress. She darted evil glances at him when she thought he was not looking, and ostentatiously ignored him when she thought he was.
"Put Sylfie out of your mind," Achibol told him. "There's no time for distractions."
Some lessons were academic. Achibol had produced a real book with tiny printed characters and little paintings called photographs. Some pictures were flat and gray, others were colored. Some were magical and did not stay on the page, but popped out at him. All were of people.
There had been many kinds of ancient man, including dark-skinned ones like Achibol. "There, Master. Bantu Chieftain, Kah One-eight-nine-seven. Master, you must be a Bantu."
"Circa eighteen ninety-seven," Achibol said. "It's an abbreviation."
"But it says here Bantu."
"No. `Ca.' is `Circa,' not `Kah.' And I'm no Bantu. I'm pure all-American black. My ancestors were Yoruba, Cherokee, Irish, Ashanti, Scotch, Chaldean, Korean, Ibo, Mandingo, and Dutch. Maybe I have a little Bantu blood way back, though."
"I haven't seen Allamerkan in here. Maybe you're a Hausa?"
"Enough, boy! Have you measured your hand today?"
"This morning, Master. My fingers are no longer than they were, but my thumb has grown two millimeters. Or maybe it's my thumbnail."
"I'd be content with a thumbnail. Are you sure?" Visualization, concentrated effort to make predetermined changes, was the second facet of the lessons. Benadek felt foolish willing his hand to grow, but Dispucket was an ever-present reminder of the consequences of failure.
"I measured it from the ink-spot on my knuckle."
"Keep visualizing. Feel it growing. Feel the bone, muscle, and skin cells multiplying."
"What should that feel like? How can I visualize something that has always just happened?"
"They're your cells, not mine," the old man snapped. "Find out for yourself. It's all symbolic, anyway. At Sufawlz I'll show you pictures of cellspictures of anything you wantbut the sensations must be your own. Now: your hair? Can you feel it grow? Have you concentrated on its color?"
"Grow! It's not growing, it's dying. Look at this." Benadek ran a hand over his scalp. It came away with a thin handful of lank, black hair.
"Hmm. What have you done?"
"I pictured it pushing up through those little holes in my skin."
"Follicles."
"Yes, those. I tried to picture them making yellow hair like Sylfie's, but it's just falling out."
"Bend over here." Achibol parted the thinning strands of the apprentice's hair and peered at his scalp. "You've done it, boy! They're there. Little blond hairs. You've done it." He grasped Benadek's hands and danced with him around the cockpit, rocking the boat fiercely.
"What's happening?" Teress demanded, poking her head from the companionway.
"He's done it!" Achibol shouted. "Tell Sylfie! Benadek's changed."
"She's sick," Teress snapped. "She's sleeping." Her head disappeared abruptly.
Benadek worked at his lessons in earnest once he had demonstrated bodily change by will alone. His enthusiasm grew with his mastery. Over two days his eyes became brilliant blue-green. He pondered the opportunities, could he duplicate mayors, chiefs, and rich merchants. He considered the windfalls he could claim should he come to resemble the husband of a poot whose loveliness had lodged in his memory.
Not all his speculations were base. "Why wouldn't it have been easier to have stored the old human patterns for a thousand years, and have done away with the complications of poots, boffins, cozies, and honches?"
"And have had the new humanity awake to a world with no towns, roads, mills, ferryboats, bridges, or comfy inns? Think of simples as caretakers." Achibol shrugged. "Besides, living wombs are required. Patterns can be preserved, but mothers with breasts, cozies with hands to build cradles and grow crops?"
"I see," said Benadek.
His dark hair thinned and his blond stubble grew apace, a halo of pale gold. He learned to make cuts and scratches heal in minutes, and to make himself distasteful to voracious insects. "Clever tricks," Achibol muttered uneasily, "but he'll need much more to keep from becoming another Dispucket. Sooner or later, his new skills will be tested to his limits, perhaps beyond." He shuddered.
Though Benadek did not realize precisely whom he was patterning his new being after, he could have been Sylfie's brother (though simples were often denied blood resemblances by the temples). Achibol recognized the subconscious desire that guided the boy, the pain and concern under his bravado and self-involvement.
Benadek had not seen Sylfie. Teress became like a vixen in her den whenever he approached the companionway. Sylfie herself, behind the insect-cloth over the hatch, bade him stay away. "I don't want you to see me looking sick."
At the far end of the swamp the valley narrowed to a distant point marked by rising hills. Mooring out of the final channel, Achibol sent Benadek ahead over soggy hummocks and shallows. He returned wet and disheveled, and reported that their way was blocked. "They've strung logs across the river, and there are scores of tents on both sides. I've never seen so many honches."
"I feared as much," Achibol replied. A careful observer would have seen the sag in his narrow shoulders, the yellowing of his walnut skin. "There's another way out. We passed it a few days back. We'll have to abandon the boat and much of our baggage, but once on the level plains, we'll make it to Sufawlz almost as quickly as if we stayed on the river.
Three of them would make it, he thought dismally, but not Sylfie. It was too late to get her to a temple. They'd have to wait in the swamp until she died. It would not be long.