Foreigner Page 8

  The newcomer was about Toroca’s size; meaning, given the overall smallness of the Others, that he or she was probably quite old. There were pheromones coming off the Other, but Toroca couldn’t interpret them; he wished he knew how to differentiate the sexes. The newcomer looked at him with an intensity Toroca found uncomfortable. The golden eyes made clear exactly where it was looking; such staring would be considered a challenge display amongst Quintaglios. The newcomer spoke briefly with the fellow with black armbands, then turned to Toroca and uttered a few words.

  Toroca shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t understand.”

  The Other savant looked fascinated. It spoke again, and the arm-banded fellow looked up sharply. Toroca guessed that the oldster had said something incendiary as a test to see if Toroca was faking not knowing their language. Toroca shrugged again and said, amusing himself, “May a thousand wingfingers fly up your anus.”

  Satisfied, apparently, that there really was a language barrier, the savant pointed at his own chest and said, “Jawn.”

  Ah, thought Toroca. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  The savant gestured at Toroca, his hand extended in a loose fist.

  Toroca opened his mouth to reply, then realized that he didn’t know what the reply should be. Was Jawn the savant’s own name, or the name of his people? Toroca pointed at the fellow wearing the black armbands.

  The savant seemed disappointed to not have his question answered, but after a moment, he pointed at the security fellow as well and said, “Morb.” He then indicated a copper tag he was wearing on a chain around his neck. Large geometric characters were embossed into it. “Jawn,” he said.

  Jawn’s cartouche, thought Toroca. Or at least, some representation of his name. He pointed at his own chest, and said, “Toroca,” and then, more slowly, “Toe-roe-ka.”

  Jawn pointed at himself and said “Jawn” again, then he pointed at Toroca and said “Toroca.”

  Toroca clicked his teeth and pointed at Morb. “Morb,” he said.

  It was a start.

  Chapter 8

  “The imagery in most dreams,” said Mokleb, “comes from the hunt. We revel in the desire to overtake and vanquish, to release pent-up violence, to gorge on fresh meat.”

  Afsan clicked his teeth. “Either you are wrong or I’m abnormal,” he said. “I rarely dream of the hunt.”

  “Perhaps not directly,” said Mokleb. “But tell me: are you often running in your dreams?”

  “Running…why, yes, I suppose so.”

  “That’s pursuit. Do you often leap?”

  “Through the air, no.” Afsan clicked his teeth again. “Leaping to conclusions, sometimes.”

  “It’s still leaping, whether it’s literal or metaphorical, and it represents the attack.”

  “But I almost never gorge myself in my dreams, Mokleb. Indeed, all my life people have teased me over my lack of interest in food.”

  “Again, the gorging doesn’t have to be literal. Any excess—whether in eating, in sexual congress, in claiming and defending a giant territory—anything like that represents the gorging, the final culmination of the hunt. Almost everyone reports at one time or another having the dream of defending a huge piece of land, bobbing up and down to deter interlopers who are kilopaces away. Territoriality is just another kind of hunt. When stalking prey, we are satisfying current needs; when defending a territory, we are ensuring that future needs will be met. Broadly, you could say dreaming is about fulfilling needs, and all needs, at their most basic level, are related to hunting and killing and establishing territory.”

  “I just don’t see that.”

  “No, of course not. It takes training to interpret dreams. The low mind uses symbols and metaphor. Some are obvious. Any long, curved object represents a hunter’s tooth: a bent tree trunk, a broken wheel rim, a rib, a crescent moon, wave caps seen in profile, even, I daresay, the convex lenses of a far-seer. And any prone object, or object out of its normal orientation—a table lying on its side, say, rather than standing on its legs—or any object leaking liquid—a bucket with a hole in it, perhaps—represents felled prey.”

  “It all strikes me as rather unlikely,” said Afsan.

  Mokleb was unperturbed. “Tell me a dream you had prior to the onset of your current bad dreams. Anything.”

  Afsan was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Well, there’s one I’ve had a few times. There’s a big, fat armorback waddling by, and—okay, this one is about the hunt, I see that now—and I leap on its back, but there’s no place to dig in tooth or claw; the whole animal is encased in a bony carapace. I struggle for a time, but end up exhausted and finally just lie down on the thing’s back, close my eyes, and go to sleep, as it ambles along, carrying me with it.”

  Mokleb looked up. “I’m sorry—I didn’t get all that. Could you repeat it?”

  Afsan sounded annoyed. “I said, there’s a large armorback. I jump on its back and try to dig into its carapace, but can’t find anything to tear into. I struggle and finally fall asleep on its back.”

  “Thank you,” said Mokleb. “You’ll note that your description of the dream changed the second time you told it. This is very significant in dream interpretation. The first time, you referred to the animal as ‘a big, fat armorback.’ The armorback is often a symbol of the unassailable in dreams. Although they eat plants, such creatures are almost impossible to kill. And a big, fat armorback—those were your words—could refer to only one person: Emperor Dybo, whose girth is legendary, or at least was so the last time you actually saw him. The power of Dybo’s office makes him impervious to almost all attacks, just like an armorback. And again, you changed your words when you described the dream a second time: in the first description, you specifically said you closed your eyes at the end; the second time you left that detail out.” Mokleb paused. “The interpretation is simple: your dream is an expression of your anger with Dybo for allowing your blinding.”

  Afsan’s tail moved in the air.

  “Telling a dream twice is very instructive,” said Mokleb. “In the dream world, we explore thoughts that we’d rather not openly face. The mind censors these thoughts completely when we’re awake, but while we sleep the censorship mechanism relaxes along with the rest of the body. Oh, in a healthy mind, even in dreams it won’t allow direct expression of an unpleasant thought, so it couches such things in symbols and metaphors. When you first put the story of your dream into words, part of your mind suddenly realized what you were really talking about. That’s why by the time you came to relate the dream a second time, the most important clues to what you were actually dreaming about were removed—the reference to the armorback being fat, and the reference to your eyes. The censorship mechanism was hard at work, keeping you from facing unpleasant thoughts.

  “I see you’re not attempting to interrupt. Of course not; you see the correctness of what I’m saying. Now, for our therapy to work, you must understand this well: everything is significant, every thought, every image, has at least one determining cause, and sometimes several. You must pledge to hold nothing back, to share every thought and picture that comes into your mind, no matter how embarrassing, unpleasant, or just plain irrelevant it may seem. The mind is just as complex, but also just as comprehensible, as the movements of the heavenly bodies you study. Together we will explore a new universe, the one that exists inside your head, and by so doing, we’ll rid you of the horrors that have been plaguing you.”

  “And restore my sight?” asked Afsan.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. How successful the therapy will be is entirely up to you.”

  “I want to succeed at this,” said Afsan.

  “Good. Our time is up for today. I will see you in two days.” She paused. “Eventually, I hope, you’ll be able to say the same thing to me.”

  Novato wanted to know how deeply into the rocks of the cliff the blueness went. The cliff was more than a hundred vertical paces tall. At its base was a narrow expanse of sandy beach. At the top
of the cliff, several gnarled trees precariously clung to the edge. Leading to the cliff’s edge were wide plains covered with tall grasses. And sitting in the middle of the plain were buildings made of stone blocks. In successive turns, the buildings were occupied by Packs Derrilo, Horbo, and Quebelmo, all of whose ranges overlapped this area. Currently, Pack Derrilo was making use of them.

  Novato enlisted some of the Pack members to help with an experiment. She had them dig down through the loose topsoil near the edge of the cliff. She wanted to see which they’d come up against, solid rock or the blue material. Down a fair bit, they came to the blue stuff.

  Fascinated, Novato had them back off to five paces from the edge of the cliff. They dug again, and again their shovels struck blue.

  They tried again ten paces back. Blue.

  Twenty paces. Blue again.

  Novato asked them to try again from another ten paces farther back, but at this point, Gatabor, one of the Pack members doing the work, held up a hand. “Humor me,” he said, and walked another hundred paces away from the edge of the cliff. Here he had to dig down a considerable distance before he reached the bottom of the soil, but finally his shovel rang in his hands. He crouched down and cleaned away the dirt.

  Blue. Solid, unrelenting blue.

  A total of a hundred and twenty paces back from the edge of the cliff. And the cliff face itself was now blue through almost its entire height of over a hundred paces.

  Gatabor stood by the hole, hands on hips, shaking his head.

  Novato walked to the other side of the hole, facing him, and, incidentally, facing the expanse behind him leading to the edge of the cliff. And so, she saw it happen…

  Saw the blue mass poke out of the ground thirty paces closer to the cliff’s edge, grass and dirt erupting out of its way as if pushed aside by a shovelmouth’s prow.

  Novato’s jaw dropped, and Gatabor’s claws slid out in response to the breach of protocol. But then she pointed and Gatabor swung around and he, too, saw it, whatever it was, rising out of the ground.

  Jawn deposited a handful of copper disks on the table. Some of them had an engraving of an Other in profile; others had an engraved crest. He moved one of the disks to the center of the table. Pointing to it with palm closed, he said, “Bal.” He then raised his hand with one finger extended. “Bal.” Toroca repeated the word.

  Next, Jawn picked up a second disk and placed it beside the first. Originally, the disk had been showing a crest; now, flipped over, it showed a profile. Toroca realized that all the disks were identical. “Lod,” said Jawn, indicating both of the disks. He held up two fingers. “Lod.”

  Toroca found this easy, and soon Jawn had taught him the names of the numerals from one to ten. It was time for the next step. “Bal eb bal tar lod,” said Jawn. One and one is two. Jawn demonstrated this by moving disks around.

  Toroca nodded and repeated the sentence: “Bal eb bal tar lod.”

  Jawn then demonstrated two more constructions. “Bal eb bal eb bal tar ker.” One and one and one is three. “Bal eb lod tar ker.” One and two is three.

  There was a little more practice with basic math, but then it seemed they were back at square one. “Bal eb bal tar lod,” said Jawn: one and one is two. But then he added a new word: “Sek-tab.”

  Jawn next said two and two equals four, and again appended “Sek-tab.” Toroca dutifully repeated each phrase.

  Then Jawn said, “Bal eb bal tar ker.” Toroca looked up. Had he misunderstood everything so far? “Bal eb bal tar ker,” said Jawn again. One and one is three? Then, stressing the word, Jawn added, “Sek-na-tab.” He then made the hand motion that meant he wanted Toroca to repeat what he’d said.

  Toroca shook his head, trying to convey that something was wrong here. “Bal eb bal tar lod,” he said. And then he repeated the answer: “Lod.”

  Jawn opened his mouth, exposing teeth. Toroca had come to understand that this was the Others’ way of showing amusement. Jawn’s expression indicated he wanted Toroca to bear with him. He said again, “Bal eb bal tar lod, sek-tab.” Toroca repeated that. Then Jawn said, “Bal eb bal tar ker, sek-na-tab.”

  Toroca slowly repeated the phrase: “Bal eb bal tar…ker.” Jawn’s eyelids blinked, an expression of astonishment shared by both Others and Quintaglios. “Sas lesh,” he said, using words Toroca had learned in an earlier lesson. Your face.

  Toroca was frustrated. “Well, of course my face is turning blue,” he blurted in the Quintaglio language. “You’re making me say something that’s not true.”

  In that instant, Toroca realized what was going on. Sek-tab meant “correct” or “true” and sek-na-tab meant “incorrect” or “false”; the addition of the syllable “na” to the middle of the word implied negation, the first Other grammatical rule Toroca had been able to divine.

  But in the same instant, Jawn clearly realized something, as well. He pointed at his own chest and said, “Jawn.” Then he pointed at himself a second time and said, “Toroca.”

  It was Toroca’s turn to be astonished, his own eyelids beating up and down. Jawn’s face had remained its usual yellow. He indicated for Toroca to repeat the same thing. Toroca pointed at his own chest and said, “Toroca,” then pointed at his chest again and said, “Jawn.” When he uttered the second name, he felt tingling as his muzzle blushed blue.

  And so, Toroca realized, a significant fact had been communicated by this simple math lesson. The Others now knew that Quintaglios could not lie without their faces betraying them. And Toroca now knew that the Others could lie.

  Jawn and Toroca stared at each other, both of them clearly astonished.

  Garios and Novato were sharing a meal of water turtle; the beast had been killed when it had waddled up onto the beach. Casually holding the flipper he was gnawing on, Garios said, “I see you’ve dispatched a letter to Afsan.”

  Novato spit aside a hunk of bone, then: “Along with the usual missives to the Emperor, yes. It went out with a rider last night.”

  Garios seemed engrossed in the anatomy of the flipper. His tone was offhanded. “May I inquire about the letter’s contents?”

  “Oh, just bringing him up-to-date on what’s been happening. You know: the cliff turning blue, and the blue pyramid erupting out of the ground.”

  “Did you, ah, perhaps ask him to come here?”

  “Here to Fra’toolar? Goodness, no. That’s a long trip, and he’s got plenty of other things to do.”

  “Of course,” said Garios, tearing some more flesh from the flipper. After a moment, he added, “Will you be going to the Capital soon?”

  “I don’t know. I should report in person to Dybo at some point. We’ll need new equipment to investigate this pyramid. Of course, Delplas could go back to take care of that; she’s got a fine head for details. So, no, I have no immediate plans to return to the Capital. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” said Garios, again examining the flipper as if he somehow expected there to be some meat on it that had evaded his earlier investigations. “Just curious.”

  “I call this the listing game,” said Mokleb. “It works like this: I suggest a category of thing, and you list all the items that fit into that category.”

  “A memory test?” said Afsan. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

  “No, I suspect there isn’t. But please indulge me. Could you, for instance, give the names of the original five hunters?”

  “Sure. Lubal, Belbar, Katoon, Hoog, and, ah, Mekt.”

  “You hesitated before Mekt. Why?”

  “I couldn’t remember if I’d said her yet.”

  “Of course. Of course. And can you name the five original mates?”

  “Dargo, Varkev, Jostark, Takood, Detoon.”

  “There, you had no trouble with that list. What about the names of the seven principal branches of government?”

  “Oh, easy. The judiciary. The church. Civil works. The exodus. Interprovincial trade. Portents and omens. Tithing.”

 
; “Very good. And the names of the eight provinces?”

  “Not only will I give you the names, Mokleb, but I’ll give them to you in order from west to east: Jam’toolar, Fra’toolar, Arj’toolar, Chu’toolar, Mar’toolar, Edz’toolar, and Capital.”

  “You missed one,” said Mokleb.

  “Did I? Which one?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Let’s see: Jam’toolar and Fra’toolar on the west coast. Then Arj’toolar. Chu’toolar to the north, with little Mar’toolar beneath it. Edz’toolar. And Capital.”

  “You missed it again.”

  Afsan sounded irritated. He held up his fingers as he named them off. “One: Jam’toolar. Two: Fra’toolar. Three: Capital. Four: Chu’toolar. Five: Mar’toolar. Six—did I say Arj’toolar yet? Arj’toolar. Seven: Edz’toolar. And eight, ah—number eight is—”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t that funny?” said Afsan. “For the life of me, I can’t remember number eight.”

  “Would you like a hint?”

  “Um.”

  “Its provincial color is light blue.”

  Afsan shook his head. “Sorry. It’s right on the fork of my tongue, but—”

  “Kev’toolar,” said Mokleb.

  “Kev’toolar!” cried Afsan. “Of course. How could I forget that?”

  “Now, quickly, Afsan, tell me the words that pop into your mind when you think of Kev’toolar.”

  “Len-Lee. She’s the governor.”

  “No, don’t explain unless I ask you to. Just say whatever words pop into your head.”

  “Coastline.” A pause. “Kevpel.”

  “Kevpel?”

  “Yes, you know. The planet. Fourth planet from the sun.”

  “Kev’toolar and Kevpel: they both start the same way.”