comradely company, rough-hewn furniture, fiddler on a chair tuning to
play a dance; at the table’s far end, a woman, long-gowned,
deep-bosomed, who bears a sheaf and an infant on her lap.
Wind. A black bird sudden athwart the pane. The sound of its beak
rapping.
Descent down endless stairs in the dark, led by one who never looks
back. The boat. The river.
On the far side they have no faces.
“I am sorry,” Ydwyr said. “We do not keep a pharmacopoeia for your
species. You must forgo drugs. Furthermore, the Old Way is not for you
to tread to its end–nor me, I confess. We have the real world to cope
with, and we will not do so by abandonment of reason.
“Tell me your dreams. If they grow too bad, call me on my private
line–thus–and I will come to you, no matter the hour.”
The snake that engirdles the universe lifts its starry head. It gapes.
Scream. Run.
The coils hiss after. The swamp clings to feet. A million years, a step
a year out of the sucking muck, and the snake draws close behind.
Lightning. Sinking. Black waters.
He held her, simply held her, at night in her room. “From my viewpoint,”
he said, “I am gaining matchless experience with human archetypes.” The
dry practicality, itself comforting, yielded to mildness. A big hand
stroked her hair. “But you, Djana, are more than a thing. You are
becoming like a child to me, did you know? I want to raise you up again
and lead you through this valley of shadows you must pass before you can
stand by your own strength.”
At mornwatch he left her. She slept a short while, but got to breakfast
and subsequently continued her regular schooling. It did not keep her
from dwelling within her dreams.
Outside, the first mists of autumn sneaked white over the wet earth.
The waters are peace. Dream, drowse … no, the snake is not dead.
The snake is not dead.
His poisonous teeth. Struggle. Scream. The warm waters are gone, drained
out with a huge hollow roaring. Hollow, hollow.
The hollow sound of hoofs, shaking a bridge that nine dead kings could
not make thunder. Light.
The snake burns backward from the light.
Raise hands to it. But bow down from its brilliance.
That blaze is off the spear of the Messiah.
“Khraich. I would be interested to know if an abortion was attempted on
you. Not important, since you survived. Your need is to learn that you
did survive, and that you can.
“Do you feel ready for another session this evening? I would like for
you to come and concentrate on the Graven Stone. It seems to have traits
in common with what I have read your Terran usage calls a … a
mandala?”
A mirror.
The face within.
One comes from behind on soundless feet and holds a mirror to the
mirror.
Endlessness dwindles toward nothingness.
At the heart of nothingness, a white spark. It flames, and nothingness
recoils and flees back outward to endlessness, while trumpets triumph.
“Ur-r-rh.” Ydwyr scowled at her test scores. They sat prosaically in his
living room–though what was prosaic about its austere serenity?
“Something developing, beyond question. A hitherto unrealized
potential–not telepathy. I’d hoped–”
“The Old Way to the One,” she said, and watched the wall dissolve.
He gave her a long stare before he replied, crisply: “You have gone as
far down that road as I dare take you, my dear. Perhaps not far enough,
but I am not able–I suspect none less than Aycharaych would be able–to
guide you further; and alone, you would lose yourself in yourself.”
“Hm?” she said vaguely. “Ydwyr, I know I touched your mind, I felt you.”
“Delusion. Mysticism is a set of symbols. Symbols are to live by,
yes–why else banners?–but they are not to be confused with the reality
for which they stand. While we know less about telepathy than
psychologists usually pretend, we do know it’s a perfectly physical
phenomenon. Extremely long waves travel at light speed, subject to
inverse-square diminution and the other laws of nature; the principles
of encoding apply; nothing but the radical variation of sensitivity,