Virginia Hamilton (7 page)

He doesn’t even know how much time has passed,
Thomas traced to Levi, who felt inspired by Duster’s voice.
What do any of them know about time?
Thomas traced.
They just keep on going. When everything’s all the same, nothing seems to be coming or going. Nothing happens next.

Levi started coughing again. For the past hour he had coughed his dry sound.

Use your hood so the dust stays off your face,
Thomas told him.

What hood? What face?
wearily Levi shot back.

Don’t start that again. Just do it.

Levi pulled the hood over as far as it would go, and tied it under his chin. It did seem to keep the dust at bay. He coughed less.

Justice was preoccupied with Duster’s singing. Rather than lifting her spirits, the chanting, free rhythm brought her only dread.

Do we have the right to lead them away from here? she wondered. Is this all I am, a leader of an escape? I sense that their leaving is not the reason … not my reason for coming here.

Should the four of us be leading, so out in the open? she went on. What does it matter now? We’ll run into the sickness sooner or later. But who knows if where we’re headed is better than here?

She forced the worry back.

I know what we are, she thought. We’re a
movement,
yes, with leaders and hunters, with killers and fools, and thinkers.

And she traced to her brothers and Dorian,
The packens must hunt if this journey takes more than a day.

Dorian, Levi and Thomas took up the thought, fanning it out over the whole troop.

“O Duster,” Justice managed to singsong, “all food will be shared.”

“Be sharing,” Duster answered back. “Packens be hunting.”

“O Leader!” Glass toned eagerly. “Be fighting now?”

“Killing now?” toned Siv.

“Be sharing,” Duster toned. “Be waiting. Hunting when Justice be singing it. Listen! It be her singing it?”

“No, Leader,” Siv and Glass toned in unison.

“Then be waiting. Be taking our time,” Duster trilled in a tune of patience.

Some time later they began to slow down from the sickness. Some were no longer standing, but crawled along. Then many lay down, shuddering and heaving dryly in the dust. Others could no longer move forward.

We’re quite close now!
Justice traced.

Suddenly Glass fell to one knee. She gagged with sickness. Duster took hold of her arm, singing a strong spirit-song just for her. He and Siv took her between them and got her to her feet.

We could heal some of them,
traced Dorian.
We don’t have to leave so many behind.

They healed a number who had fallen. Yet Justice had an urgent desire to keep going.

“Hurry!” she told everyone. “We have to keep going.”

The four joined into the unit. They were above the ground, directing Duster, Siv and Glass to run so the others would run. The packens did hurry, forcing grims to hurry. Male Slakers hobbled grotesquely on their three outlandish legs. They were in an uproar, for the shield Justice had made around them kept them from attacking anyone.

Female Slakers who had taken to the air now half-landed, half-fell when sickness overcame them. Grims were staggering. All of the smooth-keeps slowed to help the grims.

“Be coming on, Glass,” Duster warned the smooth. But Glass would not listen.

i count three packens, spoke the unit in itself. Less than half who began with us. Some will not last much longer.

It began. There came darkness but not the darkness of Mal. This darkness brought no sickness. The unit actually went down into the dust. As it ran, as the others ran, they felt a cool, smooth surface underfoot. The dust was at the level of ankles and knees.

Suddenly It was waist-high in dust. There was a great commotion at its back. It felt the shape of Duster, Siv and Glass, frantic. Slakers, whose myth was that they would never again go beneath the dust, were outraged at going under.

Still, all who were left of the gathering went under. Dust rose on both sides. They could not see ahead of them. They hurried. There was no darkness, some sickness, but again they could not see in front of them. They passed through indescribable color beyond the light spectrum they knew.

It is a divide, spoke the unit to itself. It is what separates Dustland from what really is beyond it. The color divide is the final barrier to another place.

They were going downward. Then their feet were climbing.

It is the other place,
the unit traced to all.
We are beyond the divide.

Over the silence there was the wheeze and hiss of Miacis’ breathing apparatus. Slaker beings gave out a high “chircle-chircle.” There was complete stillness from Duster, Siv and Glass. There was the subvocal and rapid-speak of the packens. Grims were breathing with difficulty.

Now came a mist.

Suddenly Duster remembered what it was. He thrilled, “Damp-time, Damp-time.” He knew it from his dreaming when a wim’s voice had come over a speaker. “ ‘You have a mark,’ ” he toned, remembering. “ ‘Pillules for headhurt, see the Disperser.’ That be the way it goes,” Duster toned to the unit. “Be coming in at end of Damp-time. Mist be clearing up soon.”

All at once he held his hands to his face and stared at them. He studied the thick pads of callus on his palms. He examined his arms, caked with the dust of his land. Then he was squatting, looking at his scarred legs and feet. His alarm grew. Down in the mist, he moved his hands through his matted, filthy hair and fingered scalp sores he had never noticed before.

The motley crew around him stared into the mist. There was movement of some kind ahead of them, but nothing was clear.

Odor hit Duster. He smelled the packen, and Siv and Glass, standing over him. The pouring rain brought by the Mal had cleansed them somewhat. Yet they all carried the stench of years of
dark
and lack of water and living in the open.

Who be he? Duster wondered about himself. Who Duster—me? Be Hellal. Hellal IX. IX.

“Be Duster, Hellal IX, be me,” he toned in a quavering voice.

Duster stood up with difficulty. Glass came near and laid a hand on his back. She pressed her face on his arm, fearful at having the leader become so strange.

Duster gazed at her. His eyes filled with tears. “Be only a youngen,” he toned. “Why It be taking me away?”

“Clear the mist,” the unit said, divining that there was some sort of being very near them now.

“Just so,” said a voice.

“Who is that?” said First Unit. It could see no one, for the mist had not cleared.

The voice did not answer.

But all the Dustlanders had heard the voice. They looked all around. They were afraid.

i am the Watcher,
First Unit traced. It held the Dustlanders in its power, keeping them from panic.

“What be that sound of voice?” Duster toned.

“Do not blind us with mist,” the unit said to the voice, the being. “We wish to see.”

A wim’s toning vibrated around them. “End Damp-time. Begin norm of ten marks. For all travelers. In Sona, mark be fifty beats. Norm be neither sun nor shade. It be domity.”

The mist gathered at ground level and sank in. They were in a chamber. The incline had opened on this hall. In front of them stood a figure.

“Bid welcome Sona!” toned the figure in a singing voice. It was the voice that had spoken a moment ago. “Wilcuma Sona. Bien venu Sona!”

It sang a major triad with the perfect fifth rendered in a deep tone.

The figure looked somewhat like a man. It was very tall, square and lean. But it had no visible arrangement of muscles as men have—no biceps showing, no chest contour or veins or tendons. It revealed no irregularities. And it was covered by a form-fitting protection, skinlike, pale blue-green. There were no wrinkles on its face. Its hands were flat and rectangular and it stood on thin, flat feet. Watery pupils filled the entire eye openings, which extended to its temples. It had a nose, somewhat; a mouth, somewhat; but no eyebrows. There were slight impressions on either side of its head.

The unit observed the figure. “Who are you?” asked First Unit.

‘That does not matter,” said the voice. “I am not here to harm you.”

“Are you capable of harm?” asked the unit.

“I am capable of anything,” said the figure. “But harm is not my intention.”

“You might harm us unintentionally,” said First Unit.

“Your language falls over me as a net,” said the voice. “My intention is to welcome you to Sona.”

“Who are you?” repeated First Unit. “Are you not man?”

“No, nor am I feman,” it said. “Er, correction. I am not
female.
I read you wrong.”

“You read my thoughts?” asked the unit.

“I read all thoughts,” said the figure.

“You are not man,” said the unit.

“I am not all man,” it said.

“You are man and … machine?” spoke the unit.

“You, as unit, are a semblance to me, as cyborg, as man/machine,” it said.

The figure appeared to become transfixed by the blue glow of Watcher light in the unit’s eyes. Abruptly it turned off. After no more than five seconds it turned on again. “O light—true light!” it toned softly.

But that was all. Just as abruptly it turned from the unit and went around it to Duster. It didn’t walk; it glided on what might have been air cushions under its feet. It moved without friction, without sound.

“Most Hellal IX,” toned the figure to Duster. It sang in delicate chords. “We are glad you are recovered.”

“Be it so!” trilled Duster. “Remember be so young. Not be dreaming on a triway.”

“And danger,” the figure toned. “You would not listen when Speaker ordered the Stay-in time.”

“Speaker be in my dream. Triwaying on my own,” toned Duster. “Be me Onewaying along, liking it.”

“Most Hellal IX,” toned the figure. “Recall the Max of Sona. Out/Place-Out/Time. You must never be out of place.”

Duster hummed agreement. “And Mal be coming,” Duster toned. “Remember be me falling flat in dark of Mal. Be following in It as It told me to. Me with some youngens in a dust place. Mal be going away, singing away—‘This be your place. Sing all you want.’ Be remembering it now.”

Duster stood with Siv and Glass holding on to him for safety. They feared everything new; they had no memories.

“Why did you not retrieve Duster?” spoke the unit. “He had been taken. Why did you not get him back?”

The figure turned to face the four, whipping around silently. Then it was motionless, empty, until it moved slightly and seemed to fill with animation.

“We did not suspect that this one and the other ones went out of place,” toned the figure. “We have times and places, and travelers as you. We have our own kinds moving from here to there as their life-needs change. Here as everywhere, place serves populace.”

“And the Mal?” questioned the unit. It must know more of Mal. For Mal had come each day to the present, warning the four to stay out of the future. But Justice and Thomas had tricked the Mal through illusion and found their way forward in time again.

“Mal is alive?” pressed the unit.

“It exists,” said the figure.

“Is it enormous?”

“It occurs at all points without exception,” said the figure.

“Then surely It is vast,” said the unit. “Where might i find It?”

“Everywhere,” said the figure, “when It wants to be found.”

“Where does It come from?” asked the unit.

“We know no source for It,” said the figure. “Our Max of Mal is: Nothing/Place-Nothing/Time.”

“That means void—nothing,” said the unit.

“Just so,” said the figure. “Mal exists when It does and It is nonexistent at other times.”

“i am made aware of it an instant before it comes,” said the unit.

“So is our Speaker, but for a longer time segment,” said the figure. “Speakers are bred to sense the Mal. They evolved the Stay-in as solution so that many will not fall ill.”

“i will find the Mal,” said the unit.

“Just so. Many have tried. By all means, It will find you,” the figure said.

It gave out a high chortling. A din rose as the gathering of Dustlanders let out pent-up emotions. They chattered, chircled and sang out excitedly. Abruptly this ended, as though a lid had been tightly shut.

At the open end of the chamber was light that the Speaker had described as domity. And from that end entered two enormous beasts. Their shadows grew distinct as they loped near. By the speed of their approach, they seemed to have just been let loose.

The beasts were at the figure’s heels, standing chest-high to it. They were the same as Miacis, yet fiercer and more forbidding. They were richly golden from being well cared for. They were Miacis, well fed, sighted and huge.

“These are gyldan,” spoke the figure, touching the creatures on their necks. “That is gylda.” He gestured toward Miacis of Dustland. “The gyldan are fine comforters to us—except for
that
one, bred misfit, as they rarely are,” the figure added.
“That
one—” alien eyes stared at Miacis of Dustland—“a mentant having free thoughts, as some will have, being unstable. All Sona thinks in accord.”

Packens hummed at the figure’s words.

“A chord!”
joked the figure, chortling.

“Miacis was caught out of place by the Mal also?” asked the unit.

“Out of place,” confirmed the figure. “Gyldan live in settled groups. The one of the dust separated herself from others, I would suppose. It would be that she did not obey Speaker. She stood alone. Became worshipful.”

“Ah, Master!” spoke Miacis to the figure.

“Good Sona, gylda,” responded the figure. “As you see, it is demonstrated,” it said to the unit, “the gylda adores when all kinds must be equal.”

Miacis was near enough to the gyldan for harsh comparison. She looked like the neglected runt of the litter.

“I can speak, Master!” Miacis whispered in her harp tones.

“Who cannot speak?” the gyldan asked in unison. “We leave speech to the Speaker. We sing.” They lifted their large heads and uttered pleasant tones in octaves.

Dumb-struck, Miacis bowed her head.