Authors: Michael Cisco
It is not strictly forbidden to name them, after all, but the mystics of Votu do not name them, and maintain that the nicknames applied to them are the names of concepts that substitute, at a single remove at least, for the beings themselves.
Most people with an opinion believe they have no senses, nor any need of them, their instantaneous schematics of the world being so perfectly precise, with respect to the disposition of events ghosts and objects in
time
, as well as in space.
It is more than probable that the mysticism of today is rooted in oracle cults, whose adherents could think of nothing better to do than to pursue a fleeting mirage of advantage by prising future secrets from the machines (or so they thought).
Long dead Reverend Ti Yunzonor, who pertinaciously contemplated troglodyte, observed in his
Night Whispers
that mastery of anything always appears to the uninitiated as strikingly natural.
“So-and-so makes it seem so natural,” people say.
From this it follows that the more natural something is, the more of a technical accomplishment it is.
That the larger robots gathered in Votu might account for the foundation of the city in a place that has little else to recommend it (there is no river, for example), is suspected.
History relates that a small group of persons, very likely nomads, were witness to the arrival of urchin, then known as burr, ‘walking’ on a single leg, very low to the ground.
(It stands actually on its knee, pivoting the leg around from front to back to set down its snowshoe-like foot ahead of it, then it glides forward on that foot, drawing its leg up into a cavity, and therefore not rising much, until the heel is nearly past its rear;
then it drops its weight forward onto its knee and repeats.
Dances reputed to be the oldest in Votu reproduce this way of moving.)
Urchin stopped, legend has it, on the site of its current shrine.
Other natural robo
ts soon came into the vicinity in order to have sex with urchin, and it was then that the chemistry between them all was first noted.
Garsenόseo was the name of the first mnemosem to write anything enduring about the natural robots, but, since he is thoug
ht of as an uncouth and shaggy gymnosophist from the sticks, his work, despite its great antiquity, is not much respected and is studied, half-heartedly and in haste, for its age only.
One of his aperçus, however, remains unshaken in the commentaries.
Waving his hand, vaguely indicating the world, the stars, and everything existing and happening in between,
From the point of view of [the natural robots], all this is sex
(he said).
When asked whether or not he thought the natural robots had minds, it is said the question delighted him.
Who knows wholly other instincts?
(he asked)
Do they eat?
One hundred and eight years later, Quil Qusogh (who is credited with discovering the chelating power of molasses, and promoting its use in preserving the natural robots from rust), wrote:
Their purity consists in a neverending inner sexual intercourse, each within each, as well as with one another, and as well with all manner of other machines, which are of human origination, and not of their origination.
Quil also was the first to refer to them as living mathematics.
There has never been a time when the natural robots did not fascinate people and provoke that mimetic reflex so particular to human beings.
The mathetes devote themselves to the imitation of natural robots in all sorts of ways within the various orders, and account resourcefully for what they do.
Readily they admit that they are projecting human affects onto beings that all but certainly don’t really have them, although there are those who like to speculate
on the intriguing question:
could the natural robots arrive at human affects in an entirely inhuman way?
The spiritual work of the mathetes is a form of translation, according to Ti Colacόlashi.
Serenity, for instance, is imputed to the robots and cultivat
ed by the mathetes, but as a mimetic imitation only, which is to say they understand that they are mimicking what imitating the machines would be if they could be understood in human terms, which, it can’t be denied, it might be that they could.
Some
—
especially the followers of Ti Uch Kazkerl, who are in bad odor with the other schools
—
advance the idea that human emulators must be prepared to replace the robots themselves in time, as purer expressions of the struggle to become natural robots themselves.
Votuvans pay tithes to maintain the shrines and visit them on Tennkee Yúvhanho, a term analogous to holiday, meaning Occasions of Special Efficacy.
Of course we still honor the natural robots (they say), with a slightly hasty, slightly embarrassed air, the way one might say, Naturally, we’re all good Catholics here
...
There is a ‘but’ waiting in the wings.
deKlend:
Any country can become a ghost country.
It may be brought on by too many people seeing their reflections in the dark in too brief a period of time.
The place becomes deserted in the first hour before dawn, as the pallor begins to gather together.
Many will return, stupefied, emerging from closets, from underneath beds, from basements and attics, from beneath bridges;
it is clear that none exactly or simply die.
They change;
some instantly become other people in other parts of the world, or what could be taken by anyone as such, with ordinary memories filling their heads, and the recollection of any former life utterly vanished.
As for the others
—
that street lamp, that tree dripping condensation, that trash can, that fountain, that bluish loaf of bread
...
It may be that some items will also disappear to turn up elsewhere, and one day you might meet your old long-lost kitchen cutting board walking up to you on two legs and asking you the time, showing off its new glinting eyebrows and white choppers.
As you look up from your watch, he is smiling insanely at you, sawing gently at the back of its hand with a finger.
One of the most far-reaching consequences of this phenomenon is that no one can ever know, having acknowledged that it happens, who they, or any other things, are, except perhaps just for the time being.
The water glass on the sill of the bedroom window upstairs might just have become a stranger you’ve never seen before, from a suddenly empty town, on the other side of the world.
Luckily these ghostly episodes are rare;
no one has ever actually known one to occur in living memory.
deKlend passes through the haunted town.
“5% Less Ghosts!” is painted on the wall of the L-shaped, empty brick hotel.
Half the buildings are scaffolded.
The hotel Bradblaine has a bronze plaque on it identifying it as former home of the local SPR.
The green-walled downstairs room, a tall effete man with his hodge podge of a girl
...
the rooms are arranged railroadcar fashion so that deKlend has to pass through theirs to reach his own.
She has many dogs and other animals, heaps of old furniture and trunks like the back of a junk store.
Sorry!
Just go on through please!
No, that way!
That way!
Everything seems to fall into place, foreordained like already written.
Nothing surprises deKlend about this place, although he has no idea what to expect.
After checking in, deKlend walks out into the wide empty street and finds a drafty eatery, tables of young people sullenly drinking koumiss, a very high ceiling with bright, remote lights.
A cynical, vituperative young man accosts deKlend, calls him something he can’t make out
...
You
city types
(he snarls)
deKlend is homeless, as any idiot can see.
He isn’t dirty, he doesn’t smell, he isn’t penniless, but he is not exactly the city type.
There are bodies lying in rows of coffins under the loose floorboards.
The insulting young man gets up and begins flipping the boards back to expose them, glancing up at deKlend every few moments.
Then he reaches down and brandishes a “dead body” at deKlend
—
it’s actually a rubber prop of a flattened, naked dead man, skin pocked a bit like baked cheese, staring eyes, horrible crinkly hair.
The next morning, grey and nearly lightless, there is a frantic, if faint, knocking on the door of deKlend’s partition.
The insulting young man, pale and trembling, is telling him that someone is asking for him
—
There’s a
whrounim
out there.
He says he wants to see you!
The whrounim stands in the middle of the street, only half emerging from a sapphirey cloud of fog.
He is tall, urbane, silent, swathed in thick and abundant clothing, with a goblin face
—
pointed chin, pointed nose, pointed lips, pointed ears, pointed eyes, pointed brows.
He’s got on a Homburg hat.
As he approaches, deKlend thinks the stationary man’s face is the bluish color of ice, but as he gets a little too close, he sees that the whrounim’s face is speckled with all colors in tiny patches, each about the size of a pore.
So this is a whrounim (deKlend thinks, taking the note held out to him)
The whrounim leads him on with silent exultation, as though he were conveying deKlend to paradise.
Whenever deKlend says anything to him, the whrounim, who walks a few paces ahead, stops, slowly turns in place, and stares at him in silence with a gloating smile.
Eventually the whrounim turns back and resumes walking with the same hasteless deliberation.
As it nears the ground, the fog crumbles into snow.
Ahead, an archway looms a hundred feet high at least (deKlend mistakes).
The arch is the opening of an imperceptibly-descending tunnel that bores down spaciously into the earth.
This tunnel is scarcely less light and airy than what had come before, given its height.
For all that it is long, there is never any real reduction of daylight and every inch of the pale brown cement walls is plain to see.
The whrounim walks in front of him, tall and elastic, with a light dull footfall.
A few scarce snowflakes begin to fall around them as they reach the other end of the tunnel.
Beyond there is a sky of brown, dropping with snow, stalklike winter trees, glistening black streets with no buildings.
A vast plain, and the city entombed in the distance, palace temples, some lined in lights like bioluminescent jellies
...
a brass building with columns
...
ochre domes, dreamlike colors vivid if not quite bright.
The lights of the carriage fasten on the gate of the school.
The Madrasa’s faculty are nearly all incredibly aged people
—
some of them, huge men with beards to their waists, robust drawn and liverspotted up to their eyelids, lumber obliviously around the campus in rags entirely ignoring the students and even the other teachers.
In every corner it seems there’s a half-dematerializing old coot wheezing, hand held out to no one as if to say ‘wait, let me catch my breath’
—
the face turned away and dimming into the wall.
In the dingy atrium, there is a slab of peachy marble with a brass inlay outlining a woman’s face, the thick Mucha-like tendrils of her flying hair stream to fill the rest of the space with sinuous curls.
The face is almost circular, on a neck that bends like a stem in the same gust that blows her tresses aside, with large eyes the liquidity and gleam of which the artist has taken pains to represent, although not well.
She has a rapt, zany expression, a prominent overbite, and complicated lips.
A ragged, skeletal instructor, shambling across the atrium like a man reeling out of an explosion, informs him that this is the tomb of a rich window who had provided for the establishment of the school.