Changer (Athanor) (73 page)

She takes a ragged breath and continues, “And with them they have lost the uniformity of prejudice.  We would find ourselves welcomed as proof that the Earth holds more than what their science has discovered.”

“Welcomed?” Eddie asks.  “Or viewed as a threat?  Some of those within Harmony have lived since the dawn of life.”

Duppy Jonah bows his head in acknowledgment.  His human form lacks his typical blue-green coloring and fishy lower body, but otherwise bears strong resemblance to his long-haired, flowing bearded triton form.

“How,” Eddie says, “will humanity feel when forced to admit to its relative youth?  We have enough rivalries of that type among the athanor.  How will humans feel when they know that some who have been thought gods and goddesses still walk the Earth?”

Vera, who has been called both goddess and saint within her own comparatively short span of years, adds, “And will they welcome us or view us as subjects for study?  I, for one, do not care to end in a laboratory, yet the risk to me is far less than to a yeti or sasquatch, faun or satyr.  Some of you may be termed animals, not people, and until your sentience is acknowledged what horrors will you meet?”

Rebecca Trapper, who for this meeting has put aside her green robes and sits clad in her fur and a few pieces of jewelry, shouts out, “What do you mean that they would think us animals?  Fur does not make a person less a human!  We can talk and craft and manipulate our environment!”

“So could the African natives imported to this continent as slaves,” interjects Anson A. Kridd in a strong, level voice.  “Yet their basic humanity is
still
in doubt in some circles.  Equally, look at the Africentric rewriting of history that seeks to make everyone from Nefertiti to Aristotle black.  Humanity has not come to terms with the fact that under the skin they are one race.  Why do you expect them to come to terms with us?”

“Perhaps,” says a
kappa
, its voice thin and shrill, like that of an infant just finished weeping, “they will see our differentness and realize their own similarities.  Perhaps our reality will inaugurate an ending to racial strife.”

“And perhaps,” says Jonathan Wong, looking at the little yellowish green, vaguely simian creature, “it will instigate more strife as elements in each area seek to learn the secrets of our long life.  I, for one, join Vera in my fervent desire not to end up in a laboratory or as a stud.”

“Hey, don’t worry, Jonny-boy,” Georgios says.  “Me and my brothers will do stud service whenever and wherever necessary.  I’m so tired of mares that I could f…”

Whatever he is planning to say is cut short by Bronson Trapper placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Kindly remember that there are ladies present, satyr.”

“I can’t forget,” Georgios says with a forlorn glance at his trousers, “and it hurts.”

Somewhat hastily, Eddie adds, “There is no reason to believe that human unity would be to our benefit.  We will be the aliens among them—never mind that many of us were born to human parents and have no greater gifts than an extended life span.  If one looks at the evidence of film and fiction, humans do not often welcome the stranger.”

“I disagree,” says Swansdown, her voice deep but melodious, rather like the lower pitches of a skillfully played cello.  “There are many legends—both ancient and modern—that indicate humanity’s desire for gods and teachers among them.”

The discussion continues in this vein throughout the morning and, after the lunch break, well into the afternoon.  Arthur’s fingers grow cramped from taking notes, and he knows that he will be working well into the evening trying to organize the various threads of the discussion into a coherent form.

He realizes that the issue is not some vague, self-important desire for change and recognition.  The complaints are carefully considered, the needs complex.  

Why shouldn’t the sasquatch have some say on government policies that affect the woods on which they depend for both their living and protection?  Shouldn’t the fauns be able to protect the naturals that they claim depend on their care?  Arthur thinks guiltily of the time and resources he has spent on lobbying for water management in New Mexico.  The theriomorphs can do something similar only from a distance.

To make matters more complex, not all of the theriomorphs want the same thing, and very few have considered the vast public attention they will all receive—at least for the first fifty or so years until enough humans who have always lived in a world with immortals and monsters mature.

Calling a recess for the evening, Arthur invites everyone to stay for discussion and picnicking on the hacienda’s grounds.  To his guilty relief, he learns that Monk has activities planned back at the hotel.  Most of the theriomorphs are getting over a certain shyness regarding mingling with humans.  A venture into the hotel restaurant or cocktail lounge seems daring.

Although Monk invites Arthur’s household to join them, Arthur explains that he and Eddie, at least, must remain home to prepare today’s minutes for tomorrow.  Vera plans to venture out with Amphitrite and Duppy Jonah.  Both women are giggling about dancing in the hotel’s club.  Even Rebecca Trapper seems tempted.

After seeing his guests to the door, Arthur wonders somewhat wistfully where Lovern is and if he is having any luck tracking down his missing Head and those who have taken it away.

Flicking off the headlights, Lovern parks his four-wheel-drive cruiser on the shoulder of the road.  For the last several days, ever since Arthur informed him that the Head had been stolen, he has been searching for his missing…

Once he would have automatically thought of it as a tool or perhaps a homunculus.  Now he doesn’t know how to term it.  Certainly a tool does not make its own alliances and arrange for favors.  “Servant” might have been a better way to view it, but now is too late to confer even that relative dignity.

“Enemy” is the only term that really fits what the Head has become.  It has permitted itself to be removed from Lovern’s keeping, apparently has lied to him and misdirected him, possibly for years.  Now the Head strives for autonomy, and only Lovern fully realizes how dangerous this could be, for only Lovern knows what vast resources he has given over to the Head’s keeping.

Getting out of the cruiser, the wizard inspects his wards and amulets.  All are active; all are fully charged.  He feels a small fear.  Most of these were crafted with the Head’s assistance.  Could it have designed them in such a fashion that it can disable them?  For how long has it resented Lovern?

Lovern tries to shrug away the apprehension but cannot.  Assuming that the amulets have been tampered with is only logical, but doing without them completely would be foolish.  What if he is wrong and the Head has dealt with him honestly?  Then he would be denying himself protection for no reason.

Contrary to popular belief, held even by many athanor, wizards cannot work magic at random.  Even the most simple spells take preparation.  Amulets permit preparation beforehand, make wonders on demand sometimes possible.  Without them, he is little better than a skinny man who has not kept himself in decent physical condition.

Now on another’s turf, he reaches out tentatively around himself, seeking warning of the magical equivalent of barbed wire.  Perhaps because this place is not meant as a permanent stronghold, he finds nothing more elaborate than a light alarm.

This is neither foolishness nor carelessness on the part of the residents.  Creating wards keyed to three and only those three could be time-consuming (as well he knows from his work for Arthur).  Even more difficult is creating wards that admit the harmless while refusing the harmful.

After thoughtful consideration, Lovern trips the alarm.  He is not coming here to steal or kidnap; he is coming here to confront.  He may as well be mannerly about it.  And perhaps his good manners will keep them off guard.

One can hope.

He raises his right hand and raps lightly on the door.  The house, he notices as he stands waiting in the small circle illuminated by a single, unshielded yellow lightbulb, is a very simple place, probably no larger than a few rooms.  Quite different from the rambling modern abode in which the Changer had undergone his unwilling surgery.  The reason for this change in residence becomes quite evident soon after the door is opened.

Louhi stands before him, clad in eggshell white linen trousers and a loose but low-cut blouse of pale blue silk.  She wears sandals with slim straps and a few slender silver chains about her throat and wrists.

She smiles at him.  “Lovern, do come in.  We thought that our visitor might well be you.”

“Thank you, Louhi.”  

He steps past her, looking about attentively, and sees the Head coming toward him.  “Head” is hardly an appropriate name for his creation, for he has a body now, a strong, muscular body, much better developed than Lovern’s own.  The wizard feels vaguely envious, but why, if Louhi took the trouble to craft an entire body, should she make one that was weak and effete?

The Head leans on a walker, which he rolls with a fair amount of command across the wooden floor.  This, then, is why Louhi selected this particular house when the need to relocate arose.  The floor plan is open, all on one story.  Only a few doors, presumably to bedrooms and bath, are closed.  The rest of the house is divided by broad archways and different shades of paint.

“Hello, Lovern,” the Head says.

“Hello.”  Lovern nods a bit stiffly.  “I’m not certain what name to call you.”

“’Head’ will do for now,” the Head says.  Interestingly, he is no longer using his characteristic alliterative speech pattern.  “I’m still considering what I wish to be called.”

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” Louhi calls from the kitchen area.  “I was just putting on the kettle.”

“Tea would be fine,” Lovern replies.  

“Please take a seat, Lovern,” the Head says.  “I will not hide that I need to rest.”

Lovern sits in a low-slung, Bauhaus-inspired chair, while Louhi helps the Head onto a sturdy Spanish colonial-style bench.

He is puzzled by her attitude.  She seems somehow younger, yet it is not a matter of her appearance, which has always been as fluid as any shapeshifter’s.  It is a matter of mannerisms; she seems gentler, less guarded.  His puzzlement increases when she sits next to the Head, resting her hand near his, not precisely holding it, but not remaining aloof.

“So, Lovern, why are you here?” the Head asks.

Lovern has considered this himself.  How can he state his reasons tactfully?

“I was wondering why you left.”  He realizes that he sounds like the ineffectual husband in a romance novel.

The Head laughs, not unkindly, but not kindly either.  “I’m certain that’s not what you really want to know, but I’m going to tell you anyhow.

“You created me and then stuck me in a dark pit in the bottom of the ocean.  For millennia, I lived without light, without friends, and with only your infrequent companionship.  Then I was left in isolation during your captivity.”

The Head stops to spare Louhi a fond smile.  “I decided that I had tolerated enough.  When I was given the opportunity to leave, I did.”

“When I was a captive.”  Lovern’s expression is pure astonishment.  “Head, that was centuries ago!  Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“What are a few centuries after two or three millennia?” the Head says caustically.  “I had practice waiting, and I didn’t care to plead with you.  I wanted freedom on my own terms.  Now I have it—and I owe you no favors.”

The teakettle begins whistling.  Louhi rises, drifts off to the kitchen.

“What are you going to do with your newfound freedom?” Lovern asks.

“That’s the question you really wanted to ask, isn’t it?  One of them, anyhow,” the Head says.  “You’ll know soon enough.  I’m not giving away anything in advance.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming with me, becoming my apprentice,” Lovern offers awkwardly.  “I didn’t realize what a terrible wrong I had committed.  That doesn’t mean I’m not willing to correct it.”

“Sorry.”  The Head looks to where Louhi is rejoining them carrying a tea tray.  “You have nothing to offer me.  Don’t you wish you could say as much, Wise Wizard?”

There.  Lovern stiffens, knowing that last was a shot meant to hurt, unable to conceal that it does indeed hurt.

“I trusted you!” he says.

“No more than an office worker trusts his computer or a banker her safe,” the Head taunts.  “What you gave to me, you simply stored away, as if with all my vast potential I was little more than a filing system.  Now you’ve learned that I am not.”

“But what you are contemplating is theft!” Lovern says.

“I consider my actions more comparable to a bonus for many years of faithful service.  I might even make a deal with you if you wish to have copies of what I hold.”

Lovern, thinking of the spells, the research, the rituals, the personal conjectures that he has stored within the Head since its creation, swallows a wail of despair.  Of course he has copies of many of them, but since the Head made access so easy, cross correlation so painless, basic spell design so tidy, he has never really codified his notes.  They were written mostly so that he could dictate to the Head.