The Leaves of October Part 17

Who is this creature, who speaks the ancient tongue of the Pylistroph as well as any who abide here in the Secluded Realm?

In this world, the youngest Hlutr seedling knows the quiverings of leaf and twig that make Coruman words...and I was taught this skill by the Eldest Herself. "I am Caretaker here," I say. "May joy be yours. How may I be of service to you, sir?"

For long moments the Human stares out across the land, where green-covered hillocks, mounds and knolls mark the barrows and monuments of a billion and a half years. We seek to preserve the newer monuments- but as entropy runs its course, we encourage the lesser plants to overgow crumbling gravesites. In the end, it is all the same: and all, in time, goes into the soil to enrich the life of all.

"I come," the man says at last, "To honor one whose grave lies here."

"Some hero of the distant past, perhaps?" Many of the Scattered Worlds' fallen have found their final rest here: Ashli Sicne, leader in the Migration of the Daamin; Batydded, great Queen of the Iaranor; Kylvan delv Minatan of Aveth.e.l.l; the fabled Galactic Rider Dareenten; and Halkinardda of the Kreen.

Here also lie Jel Haran and Lirith of the Asthoki, whose love still inspires all in the Scattered Worlds. And here is buried a golden brooch, all that remains of Aemallana, the legendary queen who ruled the empire of Aveth.e.l.l for seventy Human millennia- the longest time of peace and prosperity known in the Scattered Worlds.

"She whom I seek was not a hero great. She was a minor scholar of the Wise: Diav Trnas." He smiles. "She taught me long ago."

A Human taught by the Daamin? Stranger things have occurred in the Scattered Worlds. But not often. "Directly behind you, up the hill and twice seventy times the length of your upper limb. Yon bitterwood sapling shades the monument."

"I thank you, Elder. Soon I shall return." He gestures to the beast at his side, and together they walk to Diav Trnas' resting place. The man kneels, then all is silent in this eternal afternoon.

The horizon of the Secluded Realm curves upward as it falls away into distance, ever so slowly, until at last it closes upon itself in bluewhite splendor nearly twenty light-minutes away. Directly above is the sun...an almost-identical twin of that which shone upon Paka Tel, the long-lost Hlutr homeworld.

The horizon surrounds and encloses us, but a stronger power protects us. If the Secluded Realm is the secret heart of the Scattered Worlds, then the Eldest is its hidden soul. Her curtain of song encompa.s.ses the Realm, and none may pa.s.s within but by leave of Her Warders.

This island- which itself is as large as whole worlds- is the home of the Eldest; Her roots pervade the soil as Her gentle song pervades the air. As far beyond us as we Hlutr are beyond the lesser orders, She knows all that transpires here. This Human, whoever he is, must have come with Her blessing.

I spread my song outward, seeking the eternal communion of the Hlutr. I must sing with my brothers and sisters. For little news has come to the Secluded Realm of these poor children of Terra; I had thought them a rude and uncultured race. This one, however, is as civilized as any creature I have met. Perhaps some change has come upon the Humans, while I tend the honored dead. Time can slip away, here in this realm where time stands still and the old days still live.

Brothers and sisters, tell me of Humans.

Slowly, answers come back from beyond the stars, led by the song of Humanity's current champion, the Artist of Inse. In the millennium since the Long Winter of Mankind, great changes have taken place. Political upheavals and expansion, cultural and scientific advances- and now a new religion is beginning to sweep through the Human Galaxy.

Lorecanism is a movement that shows much influence of the Daamin and other races of the Scattered Worlds. The central mystery of the faith is kedankat: a mental state of awareness that resembles the Forever Dreams of the Daamin. Lorecanism has spread through most of the Credixian Imperium, which is the largest and most influential of Humanity's states.

My brothers and sisters tell me the tenants of Lorecanism: inner peace, harmony with all living beings, the joy that sustains the stars and informs the melodies of the Universal Song.

Is it possible, I wonder, that Humans are maturing? Some of them- this Loreca, at least, who founded the movement- seem fully developed sapient beings, at least on a level with the Daamin, the Wise Ones of Nephestal.

The pilgrim has returned, and he bows before me. "I thank you, Caretaker. Now may I beg another boon? The Eldest, where is She?"

"The Eldest is all about, pilgrim. The sward, the trees...I myself...all are part of Her substance." A slight chill pa.s.ses through me, and I feel the remote, indifferent attention of the Eldest Herself. As yet, but the most minor portion of Her being attends. "Who are you, that you wish audience with the Venerable?"

He lowers his head. "I am but a seeker of truth; aptly have you called me pilgrim. I am Grigor Haentil...who sometimes is called Loreca."

If this Human feels my surprise, he does not show it; but the Eldest does, and suddenly I feel Her powerful Inner Voice under my mental song. "Welcome to the Secluded Realm, Loreca. You honor me; among your people you are a great teacher and a wise leader."

"Please." He strokes his companion's fur. "I am an old man. To the Galaxy outside, Loreca is dead. Let him remain so. I am merely Grigor Haentil, in search of G.o.d."

"G.o.d?"

"Call it what you will. Long have my folk believed that there is something beyond us, a guiding principle, a Prime Mover, a benevolent consciousness to the Universe." A warm breeze stirs my uppermost leaves, and my visitor's inner melody falters a little. "I used to believe that too. I used to preach it." He spreads his arms. "In a long life, I've seen nothing to support such a notion. Before I die, I would like to know."

"I have asked my teachers, the Daamin. I have visited them deep in their Forever Dreams, and they cannot help me. Wise as they are, still they suffer pain, death, war- and still without knowing why."

"The ways of the Universal Song are not easy to understand."

He stares ahead, his inner sight looking far beyond the Secluded Realm. "I've visited the Watchers on Nephestal, the great Iaranori philosophers on Ismallia, even the immortal Talebba who swim on the edges of intergalactic s.p.a.ce. None have offered me any comfort."

"What can we give you, Grigor Haentil, that no other race can offer?"

"The Hlutr are near perfection. In wisdom and power, none can match you. And the Eldest is the epitome of the Hlutr. Three billion years of life! What She must know. What She must be able to tell me...."

The Eldest sings Her slow song, and it touches the very root of my being. Memories swirl about me and within me, the sum of all Her great long life. She was nurtured in the soil of Paka Tel, beneath the billion stars of night and the bright sun of day, when life was but a slumbering potential in the Scattered Worlds. Under Her tutelage, seventy times seventy thousand races have lived and grown since the Schism of the Hlutr.

I am not a G.o.d, Grigor.

The voice of the Eldest is like the incoming tide, like the lightness of air when a storm departs. It sings in the soul without disturbing the inner music.

My pilgrim bows. "None in the Scattered Worlds are more fit to wear the name."

The Eldest's song is alive within me. And also, for the moment, is Her understanding of the Galaxy outside the Secluded Realm. From the movement of stars to the twisting of a single worm in distant, rich soil, She knows the meaning of all. And that knowledge is mine.

"Grigor, your followers think that you have found what you search for...that you have transcended this world and moved on to the next level of existence."

He nods. "So they preach. So I agreed they should believe."

"The movement you started shall become the greatest and most powerful religion ever known to your people."

"That, too, was planned. I have left writings and programs that chart the course of my church for as many generations as I can foresee through the Forever Dreams. I have named all the Grand Primates for the next six centuries. My followers know what to do, and with the help of the kedankat discipline they will succeed. Only this way can we bring enlightenment to the greatest number."

"You have helped your people shed the legacy of their great winter and move forward into a new season of growth.

Perhaps you have given them the means to take a few more steps on the path to true racial maturity. You have won for your people the respect of the Scattered Worlds"

"This is all true. But irrelevant. I am an old man. All my friends are dead, I am nearly at the end of life myself. Before it ends, I must know...I must know that it all matters. That there was a reason, to do all the things I have done."

"No one knows the reasons, friend. We strive, because that is our place in the Universal Song."

"Why?"

Why, indeed? Attend, Little Ones. Hear my story:

Red, gold and orange beneath the starbright sky of Paka Tel, the Elders are decided....

The Animal Races, sprung from the oceans of their various worlds and nurtured by the Hlutr, have pa.s.sed Hlutr understanding. The Daamin, Coruma, and Evellan have dis-covered s.p.a.ce travel, and with it have invented war. The universe is on the brink of a new type of order. The Gathered Worlds will never be the same....

Sapling, you are the vanguard of the new Hlutr. Seventy times seventy generations have gone into your making. You will live longer, grow larger, and sing more strongly than we your teachers. Honor us always, Little One.

Barely able to understand this song, the little sapling s.h.i.+vers in the gentle wind that presages dawn. What shall I do, Elders?

We cannot tell you, Little One. You must see what we cannot, sing the melodies that we cannot imagine.

Another voice breathes quiet peace, stills the quavering music of the frightened seedling. Look to the night, Little One. Look beyond the stars, beyond the worlds we know. Out in the dark, where the gulfs are great and the soil bare of life.

Where, Teacher?

In the Scattered Worlds is your destiny. There, perhaps you may right the mistakes we have made.

Grow, Little One. Grow strong and sing heartily to the stars. All too soon, your time will come....

Green and brown beneath the billion stars of Paka Tel; from the valleys of Messilinia to the islands of Daarsa, and even upon the high mountains of Verkorra- the Elders debate.

The Seven Races are united in the Pylistroph, sings one of Messilinia. Never before has there been such harmony in the Universal Song.

Yet all races are still immature, argues one from crystalline Brennis. Only the Hlutr and the Talebba, who do not share the pa.s.sions of animal flesh, can see the danger of unbridled expansion.

The animal races have sent their s.h.i.+ps throughout the Gathered Worlds, sailing upon the light of the stars. Some carry Hlutr spores and seeds; thus we benefit from this exploration. But growth must be slow, supervised. I fear that the Coruma have gone too far.

The one of Messilinia answers in strong Inner Voice: You are wrong, Teacher. The Coruma will send their Seed Vessels into the Scattered Worlds, thus bringing life to those dead planets. They should have the blessing of the Hlutr in this endeavor.

From Paka Tel's verdant plains, one who was once a timid seedling sings a firm and powerful song. With her is the memory of the teachers she has long outlived. It is not the Hlutr way to let Little Ones grow without benefit of our guidance.

She flexes her great limbs, touches the beasts around her with the strength of a song she has never sung before. Let them send their seed vessels. But let the Hlutr go with them. We will send our spores into the void of night, to be driven by the light of the ma.s.sed suns of the Gathered Worlds. She feels the warmth of sunlight on her leaves, but s.h.i.+vers for the eternal cold of the black night.

When the seed vessels arrive and the animal races begin to grow on strange orbs, they will find the Hlutr there to greet them.

a.s.sent spreads through the communion of the Hlutr. This is the will of the Elders; so it shall be done.

On Paka Tel, the sapling sings a satisfied melody to herself and the happy, quiet stars.

In the latter days of the Pylistroph, there is no debate of the Elders. The Council of the Wise- a few beings from each of the Seven Races- makes all decisions. And the Wise enforce their decisions with their great war machines.

On Paka Tel, one whose memory spans the long history of the Pylistroph consults with those few she trusts: the Senior of the Daamin race, the Warders of the Talebba...and the ever-growing mult.i.tudes of the Hlutr of the Scattered Worlds. From one edge of the Galaxy to the other, her song beats in the minds of those who bother to listen: The Wise have grown foolish, friends, and times are dark. The n.o.ble aims of the Pylistroph are perverted. Life has become regimented, and the Universal Song diminished.

"What are we to do, Elder? The Wise are powerful, their legions numerous. And to fight is not our way." The Senior bows her head, turning away from her Forever Dreams to face the present with fear-filled eyes.

The Hlut of Paka Tel remembers the words of her first teachers, and trembles. Long have I known this time would come, Ashli Sicne, but loathe am I to give the counsel I must.

"Say what you will, Elder."

She sings, and replies come back to her from all the scattered Hlutr kindred. And she knows that it is time to do what she must. The future of life is no longer in the Gathered Worlds. We must leave our beloved billion stars behind, and go into the night of the Scattered Worlds. There, mayhap, will we find peace.

Shock and disbelief echo from the minds around her. "In the Scattered Worlds there is naught but primitive life. No culture, save that which we bring with us."

Would you have us abandon our homes, the very worlds upon which our people developed?

Do as you wish. She closes her leaves, bidding farewell to the bright night of her home. The Hlutr have made their choice.

The Senior nods. "Then those of the Daamin who still love life and freedom, who still seek a better future, shall come with you."

This was the Schism of the Hlutr, when the race itself was split asunder like a tree struck by lightning. And about the Gathered Worlds, we erected the Curtain of the Hlutr. For many millions of years it served to contain the so-called Wise and their successors.

Now there are not Seven Races, but seventy times seventy thousand. Each goes its own way, and the Hlutr can but try to guide all in the direction of maturity.

The struggle has been long and tiresome, with many setbacks. Empires rise and fall; the cultures of the Gathered Worlds attempt conquest and are beaten back- and each time the cycle repeats, we lose a little of our progress.

And here in the Secluded Realm, we keep the old ways, sing the old melodies for those who are not too busy, or too foolish, to listen....

I s.h.i.+ver, although it is warm here in the eternal afternoon of the Secluded Realm. Grigor Haentil shakes himself, as if waking from a dream; his furred companion sleeps on at his feet.

"Do you see, friend? The Eldest is no G.o.d. I am sorry, but there are no answers for you here. Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps what you seek cannot be found."

No, Little One.

Grigor Haentil raises his head toward me...but I know he addresses the Eldest. "Enlighten me, Eldest."

I, too, need enlightenment, I sing within.

Your task is finished, Grigor. You have changed the course of your race's history. Now you will have a deserved rest.

"But why?"

The struggle, Grigor- the struggle is the answer.

Each of us does our best...and when done, goes on to that rest which now beckons you. Rest contentedly, Little One, for you have served well.

A revelation fills my inner song, and I strain to fit it into unfamiliar and confining language. "You came looking for G.o.d, Grigor, so that you could be blessed and gain release from your life's struggle. Only you can give that blessing, friend. Release yourself, and be happy in a job well done."

There is no need now for Lorecanist kedankat or the Forever Dreams...true harmony sings from Grigor Haentil's mind, and I know he has found peace.

He looks to the sky, then back at me. "And what," he whispers, "of the Eldest?"

You have grown beyond me, my friend. Three billion years, and still I cannot follow where you lead. My task is not done, Grigor. Go, now, and take your rest.