IX
Festival dwelt in Instar. Tolteca was reminded of Carnival Week on Nuevamerica—not the commercialized feverishness of the cities, but masquerade and street dancing in the hinterlands, where folk still made their own pleasure. Oddly enough, for a people otherwise so ceremonious, the Gwydiona celebrated the time just before Bale by scrapping formality. Courtesy, honesty, nonviolence seemed too ingrained to lose. But men shouted and made horseplay, women dressed with a lavishness that would have been snickered at anytime else in the planet’s long year, schools became playgrounds, each formerly simple meal was a banquet, and quite a few families broke out the wine and got humanly drunk. A wreath of jule, roses, and pungent margwy herb hung on every door; no hour of day or night lacked music.
And so it was over this whole world, thought Tolteca: in every town on every inhabited island, the year had turned green and the people were soon bound for their shrines.
He came striding down a gravel path. The sun stood at late morning and the boy Byord walked with a hand in his. Far and holy above western forests, the mountain peaks dreamed.
“What did you do then?” asked Byord, breathless.
“We stayed in the City and had fun till it rained,” said Tolteca. “Then when it was safe, we proceeded to our goal, looked it over—a fine site indeed—and at last came back here.”
He didn’t want to relate, or remember, the ugly episode in the forest. “Exactly when did we get back?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Uh, yes, now I place it. Hard to keep track of time here, when nobody pays much attention to clocks and everything is so pleasant.”
“The City—gol! What’s it like?”
“Don’t you know?”
“’Course not, ’cept they told my cousin a little about it in school. I wasn’t born, last Bale. But I’m big enough already to go with my mother.”
“The City is very beautiful,” said Tolteca. He wondered how children as young as this fitted into a prolonged religious meditation, if that was what it was, and how they kept so well afterward the secret of what had happened.
Byord’s mind sprang to another marvel. “Tell me ’bout planets, please. When I get big, I want to be a spaceman. Like you.”
“Why not?” said Tolteca. Byord could get as good a scientific education here as anywhere in the known galaxy. By the time he was of an age to enroll, the astro academies on worlds like Nuevamerica would doubtless be eager to accept Gwydiona cadets. Gwydion itself would be more than a refueling stop, a decade hence. A people this gifted couldn’t help themselves; they were certain to become curious about the universe (as if they weren’t already so interested that only the intelligence of their questions made the number endurable)—and, yes, to influence it. The Empire had fallen, human society was once more in flux. What better ideal for the next civilization than Gwydion?
And why count myself out? thought Tolteca. When we build our spaceports here—there’ll soon be more than one—they’ll require Namerican administrators, engineers, factors, liaison officers. Why shouldn’t I become one, and live my life under Ynis and She?
He glanced down at the tangled head beside him. He’d always shrunk from the idea of acquiring a ready-made family. But why not? Byord was a polite and talented boy who still remained very much a boy. It would be a pleasure to raise him. Even today’s outing—undertaken frankly to ingratiate one Miguel Tolteca with Elfavy Simnon—had been a lot of fun.
When earlier, one of the Namerican spacemen had expressed a desire to settle here, Raven had warned him he’d go berserk in one standard year. But what did Raven know about it? The prediction was doubtless true for him. Lochlanna society, caste-ridden, haughty, ritualistic, and murderous, had nothing in common with Gwydion. But Nuevamerica, now—Oh, I don’t pretend I wouldn’t miss the lights and tall buildings, theaters, bars, parties, excitement, once in a while. But what’s to prevent me and my family from taking vacation trips there? As for our everyday lives, here are a calm, rational, but merry people with a really meaningful, implemented ideal of beauty, uncrowded in a nature which has never been trampled on. And not static, either. They have their scientific research, innovations in the arts, engineering projects. Look how they welcome the chance to have regular interstellar contact. How could I fail to fall in love with Gwydion?
Specifically, with—Tolteca shut that thought off. He came from a civilization where all problems were practical problems. So let’s not moon about, but rather take the indicated steps to get what we want. Raven had an inside track at the moment, but that needn’t be too great a handicap, especially since Raven showed no signs of wanting to remain here. Since Byord was pestering him for yarns of other planets, Tolteca reminisced aloud, with some editing, and the rest of their walk passed quickly.
They entered the town. It seemed to have become queerly deserted in their absence. Where the dwellers had swarmed in the streets a few hours ago, they now were indoors. Here and there a man hurried from one place to another, carrying some burden, but that only emphasized the emptiness. However, though the air was quiet beneath the sun, one could hear an underlying murmur, voices behind walls.
Byord broke free of Tolteca’s hand and skipped on the pavement. “We’re going soon, we’re going soon,” he caroled.
“How do you know?” asked Tolteca. He had been told some while ago that there was no fixed date for Bale time.
Every freckle grinned. “I know, Adult Miguel! Aren’t you comin’ too?”
“I think I’d better stay and take care of your pets,” said Tolteca. Byord maintained the usual small-boy zoo of bugs and amphibia.
“There’s Granther! Hey, Granther!” Byord broke into a run. Dawyd, emerging from his house, braced himself. When the cyclone had struck him and been duly hugged, he pushed it toward the door.
“Go on inside, now,” he said. “Your mother’s making ready. She has to wash at least a few kilos of dirt off you, and pack your lunch, before we start.”
“Thanks, Adult Miguel!” Byord whizzed through the entrance.
Dawyd chuckled. “I hope you aren’t too exhausted,” he said.
“Not at all,” Tolteca answered. “I enjoyed it. We followed the river upstream to the House of the Philosophers. I never imagined a place devoted to abstract thinking would include picnic grounds and a carousel.”
“Why not? Philosophers are human too, I’m told. It is refreshing for them to watch the children, romp with them . . . and perhaps a little respect for knowledge rubs off on the youngsters.” Dawyd started down the street. “I have a job to do. Would you like to accompany me? You being a technical man, this may interest you.”
Tolteca fell into step. “Are you leaving very soon, then?” he inquired.
“Yes. The signs have become clear, even to me. Older people are not so sensitive; the young adults have been wild this whole morning.” Dawyd’s eyes glittered. His lined brown face held less than its normal serenity.
“It is about ten hours on foot by the direct path to the Holy City,” he added after a moment. “Less, of course, for a man unencumbered by children and the aged. If you should, yourself, feel the time upon you, I do hope you will follow and join us there.”
Tolteca drew a long breath, as if to smell the tokens. The air was alive with the blooming of a hundred flowers, trees, bushes, vines; nectar-gathering insects droned in the sunlight. “What are the signs?” he asked. “No one has told me.”
On other occasions, Dawyd, like the rest of his people, had grown a little uneasy at questions about Bale, and changed the subject—which was a simple task with so much to discuss, twelve hundred years of separate history. Now the physician laughed aloud. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “I know, that is all. How do buds know when to unfold?”
“But haven’t you ever, in the rest of the year, made any scientific study of—”
“Here we are.” Dawyd halted at the fused stone building in the center of town. It looked square and bleak above them. The portal stood open and they entered, walking down cool shadowy halls. Another man passed, holding a wrench. Dawyd waved at him. “A technician,” he explained, “making a final check on the central power controls. Everything vital, or potentially dangerous, is stored here during Bale. Motor vehicles in a garage at the end of yonder corridor, for instance. My duty—Here we are.”
He swung aside a door which gave on a huge and sunny room, gaily painted walls lined with cribs and playpens. A mobile robot stood by each, and a bright large machine murmured to itself in the center of the floor. Dawyd walked around, observing. “This is a routine and rather nominal inspection,” he said. “The engineers have already overhauled everything. As a physician, I have to certify that the environment is sanitary and pleasant, but that has never been a problem.”
“What is it for?” Tolteca queried.
“Do you not know? Why, to care for infants, those too young to accompany us to the Holy City. Byord is about as young as we ever dare take them. The hospital wing of this building has robots to nurse the sick and the very old during Bale time, but that’s not under my supervision.” Dawyd snapped his fingers. “What in the name of chaos was I going to tell you? Oh, yes. In case you have not already been warned. This entire building is locked up during Bale. Automatic shock beams are fired at anything—or anyone—that approaches within ten meters. Any moving object that gets through to the outside wall is destroyed by flame blasts. Stay away from here!”
Tolteca stood quiet, for the last words had been alarmingly rough.
Finally, he ventured, “Isn’t that rather extreme?”
“Bale lasts about three Gwydiona days and nights,” said Dawyd. He had fixed his stare on a pen and tossed the sentences over his shoulder. “That’s more than ten standard days. Plus the time needed to walk to the Holy City and back. We don’t take chances.”
“But what is it you fear? What can happen?” Dawyd said, not entirely steadily, but so far upborne by his own euphoria that he could at last speak plainly, “It is not uncommon that some of those who go to the Holy City do not come back. On returning, the others sometimes find that in spite of locks and shutters, there has been destruction wrought in town. So we put our important machines and our helpless members here, with mechanical attendants, in a place which nothing can enter till the time locks open automatically.”
“I’ve gathered something like that,” Tolteca breathed. “But have you any idea what causes the trouble?”
“We are not certain. The mountain apes are often blamed, but the experience you related to me does seem to absolve them. Conceivably, I don’t know; conceivably we are not the only intelligent race on Gwydion. There could be true aborigines, so alien that we failed to recognize any trace of their culture. Various legends about creatures that live underground or skulk in the deep forests may have some basis in fact. I don’t know. And it is never a good idea to theorize in advance of the data.”
“Didn’t you, or your ancestors, ever attempt to get data?”
“Yes, many times. Cameras and other recording devices were planted again and again. But they were always evaded, or discovered and smashed.” Dawyd broke off short and continued his inspection in silence. He moved a little jerkily.
They were leaving the fortress before Tolteca suggested diffidently, “Perhaps we, from the ship, can observe what happens while you are gone.”
Dawyd had calmed down again. “You are welcome to try,” he said, “but I doubt you will have any success. You see, I don’t expect the town will be entered. No such thing has happened for many years. Even in my own boyhood, a raid on a deserted community was a rare event. You must not believe this is a major problem for us. It was worse in the distant past, but nowadays it has so dwindled that there isn’t even much incentive to study the problem.”
Tolteca didn’t think he would be unmotivated to look into the possibility of a native race on Gwydion. But he didn’t wish to disturb his host further. He struck a cigarette as they walked on. The streets were now entirely bare save for Dawyd and himself. And yet the sun drenched them in light. It sharpened his feeling of eeriness.
“Actually, I’m afraid you will have a dull wait,” said the older man. He was becoming more and more himself as the Namerican’s questions receded in time. “Everybody gone, everything locked up, over the whole inhabited planet. Maybe you would like to fly down to the southern hemisphere and explore a little.”
“I think we’ll just stay put and correlate our findings,” said Tolteca. “We have a lot. When you return—”
“We won’t be worth much for a few days afterward,” Dawyd warned him. “It isn’t easy for mortal flesh, being God.”
They reached his house. He stopped at the door, looking embarrassed. “I should invite you in, but—”
“I understand. Family rites.” Tolteca smiled. “I’ll stroll down to the park at town’s end. You’ll pass by there on your way, and I’ll wave farewell.”
“Thank you, far-friend.”
The door closed. Tolteca stood a moment, inhaling deeply, before he ground the cigarette butt under his heel and walked off between shuttered walls.