Authors: Zilpha Keatley Snyder
“No,” she said. “Why? Did they tell you?”
“No,” Raamo said. “It was just that I wondered—that I’ve been wondering about it. About why they picked me.” As he spoke it came flooding back—the shock of it, the disbelief.
Genaa’s stare was frankly curious, and he realized that he had let his face reflect the reliving of his turmoil. He smiled, shrugging. “It’s only that it was such a surprise. It’s not the kind of thing one imagines happening.”
“I did,” Genaa said. “I didn’t really expect it, of course. But I did imagine—”
But it was just then that the hangings of the inner doorway stirred, and then were pushed aside to reveal the figure of a large stately man dressed in a shuba of purest white.
“Greetings, Chosen Ones,” he said smiling. “I am D’ol Regle, master of novices and your guide and guardian during the next four years.”
Raamo and Genaa hurried forward to touch D’ol Regle’s hand and join him in the greeting.
“Come then, children,” he said, when the familiar words were completed, “I am to present you to your new family.”
The rest of the morning was, for Raamo, an exhilarating confusion, a surfeit of new and strange experiences and emotions. Following D’ol Regle, Raamo and Genaa were first led down a long hallway past many small chambers and then through a large archway where another Ol-zhaan—this one very youthful and wearing the short green tabard of a novice over his shuba—sat at watch. In response to D’ol Regle’s nod, the novice released the doornet of heavy cord and allowed them to pass.
Inside this inner doorway, D’ol Regle halted. He waited until the heavy hangings and doornet were back in place before he spoke. He was a large man, his body wide and weighty under his flowing shuba, and his voice seemed weighty, too, slow and ponderous with wisdom and dignity.
“Stop, Chosen Ones,” he said. “Pause here and reflect that with the drawing of these door hangings behind you, you have entered the temple itself. Past this point are sacred hallways. Look around you and Joy in what your eyes behold, but—” he paused dramatically, “remember, that you must not speak of what you see—or what you hear or do inside these walls, except among your fellow-Ol-zhaan. All things here are holy and therefore secret.” For a moment he held Raamo and Genaa with his eyes before he turned away and proceeded down the hall, his full body rolling from side to side with the measured solemnity of his stride.
Greatly affected by D’ol Regle’s imposing presence—even his size and shape seemed wondrously impressive—Raamo hurried after the stately figure, silent and full of wonder. He hardly noticed Genaa’s elbow nudging him until she nudged again, much harder. When Raamo finally glanced at her, she rolled her eyes and smiled, as if to share a joke. Raamo smiled back uncertainly, tried to pense her meaning, failed, and then hurried on after D’ol Regle.
The hallway, wider here, was hung with beautiful tapestries, intricately embroidered with strange and unfamiliar scenes. Here and there in alcoves and niches, decorative objects sat on pedestals. Some of the objects seemed to be urns and bowls, but they were not fashioned from wood or gourd. Instead they were of a strange transparent material, clear and colorless, like water enchanted into solid form. On other pedestals were statues of human figures and of what seemed to be animals, but animals unlike any that Raamo had ever seen. These figures were, again, fashioned of materials that were entirely unfamiliar. Some were mottled gray and white, but of a cool hardness of surface, and others, reddish brown in color, gleamed with a hard brilliance that caught and reflected light as did the brightest feathers of certain birds. But when Genaa attempted to question D’ol Regle concerning the objects, he would only say that they were works of art and that their origin would be explained at the proper time and in the proper order.
They came, at last, to another large archway, and through it D’ol Regle led them into a large assembly hall. The hall was full of Ol-zhaan. Seated around an enormous table-board were more than forty men and women of all ages, who looked up at them as they entered. As the many pairs of searching eyes met Raamo’s, he began again to feel the quivering pulsing agitation that had troubled him the day before. Only a few times in his life had he exchanged eye-touch with even one Ol-zhaan, and now to stand before so many filled him with disquieting sensations. Instinctively his eyes fell. Unable to raise his eyes, he tried instead to collect himself enough to center his Spirit-force in sending, so that the Ol-zhaan might pense his gratitude and devotion.
D’ol Regle was speaking, naming Raamo and Genaa, and then leading them around the table to greet each of the Ol-zhaan individually. Several he had seen before. He recognized D’ol Birta, a woman of middle age who came often to the Garden to counsel the teachers. A few others Raamo remembered seeing at public meetings and ceremonies. And at the head of the table sat D’ol Falla, the tiny, green-eyed ancient who had spoken to him at his counseling and whom he had seen in the place of honor at the rear of the Vine Procession.
Approaching D’ol Falla, Raamo raised his eyes with great effort and for only a moment he looked into the eyes of the old woman. They were large eyes, clear and deep and of an intensely brilliant shade of green. They seemed to Raamo to be full of ancient wisdom and at the same time strangely youthful; they stared into Raamo’s with an intensity that was almost painful.
It seemed to Raamo that the faces of all the Ol-zhaan, whether strange or familiar, were alike in their glory and majesty. Wreathed in the glowing sheen of their shuba hoods, they seemed to be surrounded by a mysterious aura no less awesome than the cloud-spun wreaths of light that often glorified the brightest of Green-sky’s moons.
When the rounds of greetings were over at last, Raamo and Genaa were taken to a smaller chamber where, alone again with D’ol Regle, they listened while he spoke at length, instructing and exhorting. They were told to continue to be silent about the choosing until the general assembly, except with their own families, and to mind-block carefully if they were in contact with children who might be young enough to pense and yet old enough to understand what it meant to be a Chosen. In the meantime they were to help their families prepare to move to new nid-places on the lowest level of Grand- grund. On the morning of the assembly, they were to return to the outer temple with their families, two hours before the time the assembly was to begin.
The instructions of D’ol Regle were given in voice-speaking, loudly and clearly, but they readied Raamo, through the haze of his excitement, as uncertainly as the weak sendings of a half-blocked mind. It was not until he and Genaa had been escorted to the inner gate, and D’ol Regle had left them, that Raamo realized just how little he had retained. His emotions, his response to the events of the morning, he remembered well—would always remember. But the facts, the carefully detailed instructions, were blurred and unclear.
“Good-bye then, until the morning of the assembly,” Genaa said, offering her palms for the ritual of parting.
And Raamo had to ask, “At what hour? At what hour did D’ol Regle say we were to be here?”
Genaa looked at him in surprise. “The tenth hour,” she said. “Didn’t you hear him?”
Raamo grimaced in embarrassment. “I heard him, but my mind was elsewhere. I do that often.”
Genaa smiled, arching an eyebrow. “We are to wait in the large counseling chamber for the Ol-zhaan D’ol Fanta,” she said. “Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I remember that,” Raamo said. “Which one is she?”
Genaa shook her head. “She sat—” she paused, counting in her mind, “—fifth on the far side of the table. Of middle age—with a large chin.”
Raamo stared. “Do you remember all their names?” he asked.
“I think so.” Genaa said. “On the far side there was D’ol Druvo and D’ol Wassou and—”
Raamo shook his head admiringly. “I see now why you were chosen,” he said. “I remember only two or three and those because I had seen them before. My memory has never been—”
At that moment, while he was still speaking, Raamo was interrupted by a sending that spoke his name so strongly that he heard it clearly, although he was making no effort to pense. With no conscious effort, without even centering his Spirit-force, he found himself pensing someone who called his name. “Raamo,” he heard. “Raamo D’ok. Look behind you.”
Raamo turned quickly, but at first he saw nothing and no one. But then something stirred in a distant doorway where someone was standing in the shadows.
“Ah, it is true, then,” the sending came again. “This time they have chosen well. And I, also, choose you. You are twice chosen, D’ol Raamo.”
T
HE SUN WAS HIGH
above the forest when Raamo set out from the grove of the Ol-zhaan, bound for his own nid-place in the upper midheights of Skygrund on the western edge of Orbora. The journey was not a long one or ordinarily very time-consuming. By climbing to the upper heights of Stargrund and from there beginning a glide that would take him through the heights of the two Gardengrunds and across the outskirts of Silkgrund, he could have reached his own home tree in a matter of minutes. Instead, he did not arrive until the sun was sinking beyond the far forest and the day was almost gone.
On leaving the temple grove, it had occurred to Raamo to climb high up into the upper branches of Stargrund and, among the narrow, swaying branches of the heights, to try to cross over the entire city until he reached the high branches of Skygrund. Up there, far from the press and bustle of the public branchpaths, with all the beauty of Orbora, the Temple City, spread out below him, he could be alone with his thoughts for as long as it pleased him.
He began his climb by way of Startrunk and, until the Vine ladders ended, he climbed very swiftly. But once among the myriad interwoven branches of the upper heights, his progress diminished to a leisurely exploration in the general direction of his home. He walked slowly along branches not much wider than a man’s arm and scrambled to adjoining branches through networks of Wissenvine. Once or twice he slid down the smooth narrow trunk of a rooftree until, on a lower level, he was able to reach the branch of the next grund. And several times, when cozy moss-grown forks offered a secure resting place, he stopped awhile to think and dream. Swaying in the constant warm breezes of the high forest, he nibbled on tree mushrooms and thought of many things.
Swinging there, just below the rooffronds, as free and solitary as the high-flying rain dove, Raamo thought of his past life, his childhood, now so suddenly over. Looking back it seemed to have been a time of great happiness. A quiet time of careless freedom, of long hours spent with other boys and girls, climbing, gliding, and exploring in an endless playground of forest and sky. He remembered day-long explorations into the open forest far from the city, where he and his friends, supposedly searching for trencher beaks, had made other and more exciting discoveries. He remembered wild scrambles along untrodden branches after the small cuddly treebears, which, although easily tamed, were not often accepted by parents as nid-pets because of their big appetites and messy habits. He remembered the building of special meeting places in the branches of uninhabited grunds where groups of boys and girls who were close friends would meet to talk, to play games, and to practice the rituals of love and friendship that they had been taught since earliest infancy.
He remembered also, other times, when prodded by strange urgings, which left him feeling bewildered and guilty, he had, with a few daring friends, climbed down to within a few feet of the forest floor—although he knew well how dangerous and how disapproved such explorations were. But somehow, the strange tantalizing thrill had been too much to resist.
No Kindar was ever supposed to go below the lowest level of Grundtree branches, but by scrambling through tangled Wissenvines, or shinnying, sima fashion, down small rooftree trunks, it was possible to go much lower, without actually setting foot on the forest floor. Hanging there, perhaps a hundred feet below the safety of the great public branchways, perhaps even low enough to touch and be touched by the great feathery fronds of fern, or the smooth pale skin of a mushroom dome, the world of the forest floor was very near and incredibly strange and fascinating.
The air was warm and close and full of dark pungent smells, so different from the rainwashed breezes of the high forest. The earth itself, the rich dark soil of Green-sky—a mystery to a tree-born Kindar—was visible in places where pathways wound in and out, worn bare of grasses by unimaginable paws or feet. From here and there beneath the undergrowth there came mysterious sounds, perhaps the skittering and chattering of small earth creatures—or perhaps something far more sinister. Was it not possible that the noises came from farther down, drifting up ventilation tunnels and out through the grillwork of Wissenvine? Or even more terrifying to contemplate, could the sounds be coming from very near—perhaps from just below the nearest arch of fern-frond, where long clawed monsters—somehow released from their earthly prison—crouched tense and ready. Such thoughts were enough to send the bravest of guilty explorers scrambling for the safety of the great branches of the nearest grund.
Even now, when he was no longer a rebellious child daring to explore forbidden places, the thought of the forest floor and its mysteries was intriguing to Raamo. Forgetting for the moment the great responsibilities and honor that lay in his future, he let his mind drift over the possibility of descending once more to the lowest limits of safety. Rolling over onto his stomach, he looked down from his resting place, down and down, past branch and Vine, past branchpaths and nid-places, past the clustering buildings and hallways of the city, to where the earth lay—deep and dark and hidden, underlying everything—supporting, feeding, replenishing every spark of life in all of Green-sky. And yet harboring in its dark depths unthinkable evils.
“I’ll go once more,” Raamo thought. “Before I go to become an Ol-zhaan, I’ll go down once more to the forest floor. Perhaps I’ll even touch the earth with my bare hand.” The very thought sent a convulsive shudder up the backs of his legs and along his backbone all the way to the base of his skull. A moment later he shook his head violently as cold disgust swept over him. How could he? How could he give way to such unworthy desires now, now when he had been granted such a high and sacred honor. What would the Ol-zhaan think of him if they knew? Surely they would reject him and choose someone more deserving to take his place as a Chosen.