Chapter 4 - Sciriceen and Home

Chapter Four

Danian Panille was quiet on the ride home. Castor hoped this was simple annoyance at having been rousted so late for a favor, though his better judgment knew otherwise. "Three bloody weeks," had been Danian's sole greeting at the shore.

Castor sniffed the air, smelled the night's promise of tomorrow's inevitable torrents. He sat tandem behind Danian within the exposed passenger compartment of a squat gadi'round: top third of its thin, spoked wheels whirred past the windows on both sides as they bumped and crunched along the gravel streets of Sciriceen's eastern shoreline district. Bramaria had balled herself onto Castor's lap, asleep; or so he presumed--there were no outward indicators other than her lack of sound, movement, or scent--though Castor could insist that, at times, he perceived the abdominal rumbling of a soft snore.

It was late, capping the most exhausting, most significant day of Castor's young life, and he envied the bundle of hair and legs sat motionless in his lap. The physical high of the day's events had dulled by the time they'd stepped off the rind, up the steps to the front streets of Sciriceen; emotions also softening, blending into the hazy roil of his fatigued brain. Though the ride was a mere ten minutes from the shore, Castor could not be home soon enough. Still, he refused his body's insistence to nod off, wishing to provide no further offense for his agitated friend. Danian forced a sigh, inviting comment, but Castor simply had no energy to respond, decided to ignore the invitation. He hoped this too would not further offend.

Presently, the gadi'round pulled alongside the edge of a semi-circular inlet fronting a low series of ivywood structures, came to rest in a skid of shale gravel. Danian was at the rear of the vehicle, offloading Castor's gear before Castor could rouse Bramaria from his lap and drag himself off the seat to the driveway. Danian dropped the gear bag with disregard onto the edge of the garden which occupied the outside front area of the apartments, wounding a patch of scrub succulents growing there.

He slammed the compartment lid shut.

"My friend--I apologize," Castor said.

"I'll be back come morning. And you'd best be ready; there's much to account for, my friend," Danian said.

Castor nodded, eyes half-closed, said: "Right. Dani. I--we're--sorry. And thank you. Come morning then." Bramaria pivoted toward Castor, turned curious brows up as if to say 'We?!'

Danian softened a bit, grunted with a hint of a smile. He stooped to give Bramaria a tap goodbye--a gesture from which she sprung backward. "Someday," he said then turned back to Castor, flashed a sideways grin, said: "You'd best not disappoint me, shir Diep!" mocking him with the formal title. He turned on his heels, walked back to the vehicle, and hopped into the front seat. The large wheels spat gravel, bumped and crunched away as Castor waved. He and Bramaria headed up the walk to the apartment: She free of her harness; he dragging the heavy bag of gear behind them and carrying Bramaria's stash of carcasses over his shoulder.

Castor's first stop after dumping the bag to the apartment floor was the galley. There, he tossed the pack of new carcasses onto the bottom shelf of the cooler, stared inside the cooler for a bit trying with great difficulty to decide what to eat. His empty belly gurgled a complaint, sounding much like one of Bramaria's abdominal cues. If only he could produce the pheromone odor of dead flesh, he thought, he could match her scent-for-scent in this moment--the odor implying she, too, was famished.

He collected a hodgepodge of vegetable snacks and leftovers, along with a bilge-fly for Bramaria. He set the fist-sized carcass aside, and still standing at the galley counter, devoured his own meager banquet in as few mouthfuls as possible; was surprised to find Bramaria suddenly at the end of the counter slinking toward him. "Sorry Bram. I should've been more considerate," he said, sliding the wrapped carcass down the counter to her. Most meals, Bramaria insisted on warmed and in the comfort of the neat corner nest she kept near the divan in the apartment's sitting room. But tonight she, like Castor, was more than happy to make an exception.

Leaving her to her meal, Castor made his way back out to the sitting room and lay down on a plush divan; head rested on the pillow of its sloped, gently curved arm. His dazed brain tranced on the mural of the room's entry wall for minutes-seeming-seconds, was jolted back to reality by Bramaria, once again, balling herself into his lap. Owing to his earlier exposure to the caustic, quartz-infused vapor of the shallow, Castor opted for a second dose of the Bun T'Lal-prescribed antitoxin, popped the last remaining tablet from his vax-dispenser.

"Why do you stick with me, Bram?" Castor said, translating for her.

There was no immediate response, then, "Bram... Family... No..." She added with a tired chirp/bark, "You... Me... Worry..." Castor took this last for the rebuke it was reflecting his earlier actions out on the rind of which she had so disapproved.

"I know, Bram. I know."

"You... Me..." she paused then tapped, "Bore... No..." Not a question; accented with the soft scent of spice--her best inference of humor. This conceptual translation of 'bore', Castor noted, was new for her. He was impressed with its use.

Forgoing the security of the tight cocoon of her sitting room nest, Bramaria remained motionless on the divan with Castor. Castor smiled softly as his eyelids began to fall. Belly full, Bramaria settled, and no more distractions to hold his consciousness to account, that soon slipped away as, he too, became as still as she.

His dream sees Castor holding a flexible sheet-reader atop a bunk within a tent set within the inner grotto of the tiny no-name islet. It is not yet time to sleep and he's left the pull-hatch on the far side of the tent opened. Over the reader, a stirring lump of shadow catches his eye. The shadow is just larger than his opened hand and slinking forward near the hatch. There is the faint odor of sweetness scratching at the edge of his awareness now. He is wary. There are no vebniva nests about the ivy enclosure of the grove, but he is aware of their proximity. Castor has left himself unguarded! He discerns the independent motion of gangly appendages around the shadow's circumference as the thing eases forward toward the end of the bunk. He is panicked but does not yet move. The shadow disappears beneath the obstruction of the bunk. Castor keeps a nakh dagger atop an upended pack case next to the bunk. He takes the dagger in hand just as four gangly, sparsely furred black tips reach up and over the bunk-end. Castor swings upright to the floor, pounds his feet furiously creating as much vibration in the nanoflex flooring as possible. The action is no guarantee, and he readies for an attacking pounce. Instead, the small creature slips from the bunk, awkwardly falls to the floor. Castor moves to finish the thing, but it scurries in a shadowy blur back out the open hatch. Castor rushes to the hatch and pulls the latch closed.

The dream haze shifts. The day is now new and spent. Outside the tent, Castor pinches a rounded controller attached to a small, amorphous lump of nanoflex material and the lump expands, bending and shaping itself into a simple stool with three rigid legs and a flat, flexible seat. He situates the stool next to a campfire crackling within a ring of shale. He sits. A thick slice of meat smolders atop a grate set over the fire, filling the air with the smoky aroma of salted char. It is dark outside the circular flicker-glow of the fire. There is familiar movement just outside the glow's purview. It's the movement of the small intruder from the night before. Once again, the edge of his perception is teased by a sudden sweetness in the air. Castor lets the panic of the morning pass through him and is left only with a deep curiosity.

The scene repeats in swirling flashes with only slight variations: a different meal; stool on the opposite side of the fire; Castor hums; Castor is silent; a breeze carries smoke from the fire across the campsite; there is no breeze. But always the diminutive spindler comes to the same spot, watches just outside the flickering ring of light.

Once again, the dream shifts. Castor prepares his final evening meal before the next day's departure. He tosses a bit of meat just in front of his motionless visitor who is, once again, watching from the periphery of the firelight. The creature hesitates then creeps forward. It cautiously tests the morsel with the pointed ends of two front appendages--fatter, shorter than the rest--finds the offering unappealing, steps backward with a sharp chirp. Castor repeats the action with a bit of raw meat he takes from the chest next to his stool. Again, the spindler prods, then sinks the pointed appendage ends into the meat with a spasm. After a moment, the creature extracts the appendages from the morsel and edges forward hiding the meat beneath its body. Castor watches with curious interest--he's never observed a digesting spindler before. The creature returns to its watching spot. Castor sees the devoured morsel, now desiccated, shriveled.

It is morning. Castor exits the tent into the cool mist captured within the grove. It is like any other morning with one exception: There, on the concave wall of ivy, directly above the nightly watching spot of the spindler, is a white gossamer-gauze nest the length of Castor's outstretched arm, winding into the folds of enormous leaves. Castor sees no sign of the creature itself but is certain it's nestled into the cocoon at the nest's center. He knows this to be unusual--for all their ferocity, vebniva are strictly endeared to the family, even in times of migrations.

Castor now sits in the pilot's seat of a small skiff, sweating with the humidity of midday, prepares to leave for home. He takes a last glance behind him at the viridescence of immense leaves concealing the grotto deep within. His grotto--intrusion made their grotto. He spots a tiny, motionless cluster of legs atop the shale near the path exit from the ivy. Castor pauses a moment then drops the paddle treads into the thick mud of the shallows. He glances back one more time and the cluster has gone. He pops the throttles of the skiff forward, lurches into the thick shallows toward home.

* * *

"You do feel it, don't you?" Castor yelled over the roar of whirring tools. "As if time is moving in the wrong direction?"

"Right now, what I feel is that may never finish this piece," Danian--taller than Castor by ten centimeters, stockier but with the same raven hair--yelled back, grinder in hand, gesturing with an elbow toward a half-formed chunk of brilliant crystal bloom which sat atop the workbench in front of them. "If only time would run backward just a while." He and Castor labored within the cluttered studio, which was not quite adequately sized for the work performed there. Torrents of rain pounded the ceiling above them, adding to the din.

"Not backward," Castor said, ignoring the dismissal, "but askew, following an errant path perhaps." More to himself, added: "Just wrong."

Danian stepped back, flipped a switch on the end of the grinder, silencing the howl of its motor, said: "Has this to do with yesterday, Diep? Eh?" the edge of scorn in his voice slight but noticeable. "Or your disappearing act?" He gestured again to the work-in-progress sitting atop the bench, wide eyes above pursed lips, said: "There are deadlines to meet!"

Since Danian's morning arrival at the apartment, Castor had kept the conversation casual, waiting for a proper time to disclose the events of the previous day. He'd found this task difficult. Danian--Dani, his oldest friend, if not always dearest--had ever been the board to his sounding, whether prattle or philosophy. But his sensibility could be delicate at times. The chaotic ramblings he ached to share today called for a level of finesse the two had, in fact, never required.

Castor said: "You're right, my friend. Not a good time. Work now; talk later." Danian shrugged, turned back to the bench, grinder whirring back to life.

Nothing more was said the remainder of the morning, through the afternoon, by either of them. The tension was awkward. Relentless rain droned on outside while Castor and Danian ground, chipped, and polished, transforming multi-hued lifeless bloom to a fine-art bust likeness; that of an individual unknown to either of them. A fine payday however--this they knew well.

Eventually, the revving tools, chipping crystal, squeaks and knocks ceased, leaving only the drone of the pounding pour above and the silence of the two; the studio around them coated in fine quartz dust. Elbow to elbow, the pair regarded the nearly finished piece, smiles under masked faces. Removing his mask, Danian jabbed Castor with a light prod, said: "Decent work...Diep. Decent." The concentration required of the labor had cleared Castor's mind but, as the distraction now waned, he felt clarity displaced by the onrush of anxiety.

He had to share. He had to!

"Brush off and let's relax a while, Dani. There's much to discuss." Relieved now from the weight of deadlines, Danian's curiosity piqued. He patted and brushed at his clothing in large puffs of quartz dust.

In the sitting room, Bramaria was slung into a gauze hammock she'd fashioned to her nest as her own morning's work. Three gangly legs were hairy, mutant fingers lazed over the side of the hammock. One blackened 'fingertip' flicked back and forth as if keeping time to an unheard rhythm only she'd discovered within the random assault of patters on the roof. Danian reached out on the sly, tweaked one of the legs. Bramaria, not losing a beat, cocked the offended leg up at the knuckle, held it there in annoyance.

Danian chuckled. "Eventually, Bram... You'll give in eventually." he said, "Love me as I deserve, you disgusting thing." Bramaria didn't flinch for the words were spoken with true affection.

Castor brought coffee on a tray from the galley and he and Danian took seats opposite each other in the small sitting room; he on the divan, Danian on the chair situated next to a plate window of quartz-glass which was blurred by a solid sheet of wet from the storm raging outside. Castor set the tray atop the low, nanoflex table between them. Danian pulled his chair forward to meet it.

"So. You left the skiff." Danian said, taking a steaming cup from the tray.

"Mm-hmm." Castor peered up at Danian through his own cloud of steam.

"I see. At the reef. With a closed port."

"Yep."

"With harvesters bound in the area." (Harvesters--fishers of shadow-hunters and other creatures of the deep mud--were notorious for rising, at times, to just above privateer.)

"My skiff." He added.

"No longer your skiff, Dani," Castor said. "Besides, I dropped a buoy. I'll know if it moves."

"You're right about that. I have no cause to worry then, have I?" Castor and Danian sat quietly after this, sipping the hot coffee, avoiding eye contact. The moment was more awkward than any other that day.

Presently, Castor spoke.

"Dani, I--"

"What in the bloody moon happened to you the past weeks?!" Danian blurted.

Castor took Danian's outburst as an opening and, dismissing all apology for his weeks of absence, he began a rambling recount of the profound events of the previous evening. The words rushed from him with the gale force of winds tearing within the storm outside. Danian, who had been expecting the apology--not the chaotic rant of a friend-turned-lunatic--sat in stunned silence while Castor replayed the events, detail for detail. He described, along with the many visual wonders of the cockpit, the less tangible sense of welcome, of belonging experienced treading the floors of the submerged craft; of the sensation he'd felt that the craft had belonged there as well, in its time and theirs. Not by the grace of Bagad'i, but by the happenstance of fate--a gift of Scion! A gift to be known and understood not hidden through time; not secreted away by the wills of greater men.

Castor concluded the surreal tale. Danian continued to regard his friend a lunatic, though far less so for the earnestness in which the tale was told.

"Good Lords Baga!" Danian cried, slapping his thighs, producing a white puff from the remains of the workday still embedded within his pants leg. "I would call you a liar, but I know better of it, Diep. But such blasphemy! That... this is not like you. To question the Tenets--sure, at times. To question the Bun T'Lal--I'd expect nothing less. But...but to trample your feet upon the very Arm of Bagad'i?" His head shook in disbelief. "What is this? Are you smazy? vapor-fogged? Are you off your vax?

Castor shook off the questions.

"As I said, Dani, I don't believe it to be the Arm of Bagad'i. Not now. Rather--perhaps--an extension of Scion? Proximity must assuredly be at hand. And if this is the case then, where is adherence to The Nikata'Kal? Why am I the only witness? Should there not be dancing in the streets of Sciriceen--storms be damned? Where is the proclamation of the Baga?! If the Bun T'Lal are unaware, then--why are they?!"

"If all is as you claim, the Bun T'Lal are most certainly aware and have reasons for their silence." Danian said, shrugged.

"Silence in opposition to The Nikata'Kal?" Castor said.

"Silence in accord with the Basic Principles of Protection, I'd assume," Danian said.

And there it is! Castor could not let this go unanswered.

"What need to assume?" Castor said with a disapproving shake of his head. "Do you not see the contradiction?"

"Faith is belief in defiance of contradiction," Danian said.

"How naive! Where is that lesson taught?"

"Um...well--"

"If something makes sense, it makes sense. No one should ever ransom reason for belief!" Castor said, then "Certainly, no one should ever be required to."

Perhaps we don't know each other as well as assumed.

He had not quite expected such a response from his friend. Castor decided then to share only one of the artifacts with Danian, and that with hesitation. He reached into a bag sitting next to the divan, produced the black orb which he'd kicked across the derelict vessel's floor.

"This," Castor held the orb up, presented it to Danian. "This. Such a simple thing! Look!" He rotated the orb with a twist of his wrist, brought the side of it containing a small circular portal to bear. Within the portal floated an object with writings of the Old Forms on its many faces. The object inside spun independent of the orb; behind the clear portal, swam within its blue liquid bath.

"A true relic of Origin? Wondrous, yes! But is this not the most mundane of divinities?" Castor added.

Danian surrendered to his curiosity, reached out and cautiously took the orb from Castor, regarded it twisting now in his own hand. "I believe you, Diep. But..." his hand shook under the moral weight of the orb. Castor watched his friend wrestle with the same curiosity-over-blasphemy with which he'd been previously confronted. But he knew his friend--less curious, more dogmatic than he.

Castor said: "Time moves in the wrong direction, my friend. And not of its own accord. We're stifled, Dani, as a people--we are stifled. Things that were known are unknown; things that were seen, obscured--and we're lesser for it. I know you know this." Castor risked the accusation, hoped his friend would loosen his dogmatic grip, if but a little. "We both were brought up under the tutelage of the Pedagoguery which we both also questioned. Can you close your mind now after what I've told you? Unless you truly do believe me a liar."

"Wheel of Baga, forgive me," Danian whispered, setting the orb down next to the coffee tray with reverence.

Castor considered carefully, said: "I could take you...when the rind clears."

Danian's eyes went wide. "I do not believe you a liar, Diep! But not a chance! You should not speak such things. This..." Danian pointed to the orb, "...this should be presented to the Bun T'Lal. If for no better reason, than to keep you from castigation!" Danian referred to often severe enforcement of the social order, overseen by the Jokata Ha'i--an intolerant man in a position not known for tolerance; blasphemy among the highest of offenses against one's peers.

Castor huffed a weary sigh, said: "I swear, Dani, Sometimes I think Bramaria better understands me than you."

"Will you?" Danian prodded.

"Will I what?"

"Present yourself to the Bun T'Lal. Get from them your explanations."

"Indeed, No," Castor said. "That is not my intent. Perhaps Harrot--"

Danian laughed aloud, said: "I love the old man. But let's face it, Diep. There's bound to be little sway in that argument. Spindlers in a nest, the two of you!"

Castor shrugged.

"Well, you know where my thoughts lie." Danian turned away to the window. "No shir, I don't possess your stones--" He thought a moment, turned back with a devious smile, continued, "--or your stupidity! I'm just not certain which drives you to the far edge of sense!"

"The far edge of sense," Castor repeated. "Curious, that. When people are misled, understanding and belief resides there; truth could not be further from it, Dani."

Weary, Danian said: "Alright...alright. I know when to step down, my friend." He knew Castor differently that day; Danian, in fact, recognized a different Castor altogether. But he was a friend, and as a friend he would let differences be as they may between them. He stood from the chair, setting the empty cup on the tray. "Storm's beginning to let up, it seems. I'd best be off." Something in Danian's look told Castor the subject was far from dropped.

Castor also stood, stepped close to Danian, put a hand on his shoulder, said: "So it does seem, Dani. Thank you for listening. For my part, I understand your reluctance with all this...rambling of mine. Perhaps I am a touch vapor-fogged after all. Go. Get some sleep. We've a bust to finish tomorrow."

"And a wealthy benefactor to impress; rups to collect!" Danian gathered his work bag and made for the door, covering his head with the bag as he stepped out into the rain, shutting the door behind him.

Castor took the coffee tray to the galley. Bramaria, sensing the tall one had gone, unfolded from her hammock, creeped down the web face to the floor, skittered up behind him as he walked. Castor left the tray messed with sugar grains, stained with dark drips, on the galley counter then prepared himself a light dinner as his gangly friend 'watched', crouching near the galley door. After her meal of bilge-fly the night before, she wouldn't eat again for several days but, with the other nuisance now gone from the apartment, she preferred to share in Castor's activities wherever they might lead.

The scent of sweet vanilla flicked at Castor's senses--a contrast to the steamed rootlet and warm meat resting on his plate. He could hear a consistent, light barking from Bramaria's abdomen. "I'm OK, Bram," he said. "Yes...Dani can be difficult. I understand how you feel about him." He'd picked up on the sentiment of concern, surmised the rest from personal history. Plate in hand, he stooped over, tapped the gist of his reply for her.

How could Dani be so obstinate? Castor knew him to be an intelligent man, not generally prone to judgment. Perhaps the shedding of this light cast shadows from too many doubts to accept. Castor had seen the shadows as well. But, for him, the light had scattered, engulfing doubt, filling the whole of his awareness until no shadows remained. He was there in the moment; the witness of it.

When faced with an undeniable truth, one must accept that truth--or fashion oneself a hypocrite. Castor reasoned. Dani should at least see for himself.

Disappointed in his inability to let go of this irritation, he forced himself to concentrate on other things while shoveling heavy forkfuls of food into his mouth. Dani had shown to the apartment that morning before Castor had awoken, so he'd had yet no opportunity to examine the artifacts. The black orb sat where Danian left it, portal side down, on the nanoflex table. Castor once again, picked the odd thing up in one hand, twisted it around. It produced no sound--seemed to perform no function other than to display the words of the inner object through the portal screen. He turned it several times over until one of the Old Form phrases looked familiar: 'Most Likely'

I must pay Harrot a visit, Castor thought.

He set the thing back atop the table, took the last bite of rootlet as Bramaria crawled across the divan, laid her mandibles on his pants-leg.

Tap...tap...

She pointed a leg across the table, toward the black orb while she spoke. Castor shrugged, tapped back: "Not sure."

From the bottom of the bag beside him, his hand emerged holding the thin, silver-tipped mechanical instrument he'd found nestled in the ash-dust pile of the craft cockpit. Holding the slender ovoid in one hand, he lightly nudged the silver tip with the opened palm of the other; a tiny extrusion appeared then disappeared at the opposite end of the thing as he did. It was remarkably similar to the micro-grinder in the studio, itself a rather ancient piece of kit. Castor wondered if it could have a similar function.

Next, he retrieved the flat device from the bag, its narrow edge of light winking to life. The thing was pristine, as if just handed him new across eons. At the same moment, the bag cast a sudden glow from its open top; the edge-light of the banded wrist-device had awakened in tandem with the flat device--as it had the prior evening. These clearly worked as a pair. This, he also removed then he placed it on the table next to the orb, turned his attention back to the thin hard plastic and glass-not-crystal of the flat device.

His fingertip glided across its smooth face prompting the edge to turn from white to bright yellow and several icons to appear on its screen. In its center, one icon seemed to suggest an entryway of some kind; another was a simple circle with a large 'X'. Though both were accompanied by small lettering--in the Old Forms--Castor assumed no need of these, promptly tapped the entry-like image.

So far, so similar to a sheet-reader, he thought.

The screen erupted with colors and light and movement, a replay in miniature of the previous evening. A flat wheel of connected, iridescent segments, each containing three-dimensional icons and flat words, floated just above the surface in a quarter spin, then came to rest. Some icons were baffling; others had that aspect of the familiar-yet-unfamiliar he'd experienced so vividly within much of the craft itself: a printed book--ancient, but not unknown; a human face; a flower; the orb of a nondescript planet; a power cell--though cylindrical rather than cuboid; a near perfect likeness of the banded wrist-device now glowing on the table. Displayed flat at the top of of the screen were the words 'Lindsay Heller' in large font. Though more elaborately presented, the context of function on display here was not entirely foreign to Castor. It appeared to have similar facility to that of any number of devices to which he was accustomed.

This is no sheet-reader! But nor was it, Castor reasoned, of any greater mystery than that of the erosion of time diluted further by the wills of greater men. A very human mystery, after all.

Bramaria, having not moved, began lifting a curious leg out to touch the dazzling display; thought better of it, tucked the leg back with a flinch of apprehension.

Presently, Castor poked a finger at the face icon and the wheel transformed to an offset stack of identical, roughly square, metallic-silver icons, each overlaid with text. He found that a flick scrolled the stack up and over in an arc in either direction; a tap would halt the scroll. He selected one of the icons at random, causing the display to transform to yet another, similar stack--but of icons each of a different photo image.

Without thinking, Castor poked his finger again at the new stack. The randomly selected image swooped into an enlargement set vertical above the face of the device, resting at a tilt. The portrait before him was that of a feminine figure, middle-aged, in a loose-fitting body suit--inlaid patch unreadable over the right breast--with sandy light hair and blue eyes. Red lips turned up in a wide smile as she stood, arms folded, atop a kukura float. In the foreground, a male figure in similar attire sat atop a surface glider, harness in hand, riding the beast in the same fashion Castor had many times. This figure was covered from waist to toe with translucent mud, suggesting to Castor no charge weave in the fabric of the garments, but in many respects was of similar attribute to his own UV attire. The better part of astonishment, however, lent to the exposed skin of each figure: leathery shades of light bronze with pink undertones--and entirely opaque!

Castor's universe became suddenly more vast and at once condensed; he forgot to breath, nearly dropped the device to the floor as he took in the scene. "If these...people...truly are of Bagad'i," he hissed aloud, "then lies and misdeeds of the Bun T'Lal be damned!" The progenitors of Origin--those children of Scion--were not human after all!