Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

When Blint and the crew returned, he was crouched beneath the owner-house window, finishing the carving of Delia and. the child. That night, for the first time since he had made her, he did not even look at the small carving of Suspirra.

Night on the River in the township of Thou-ne. Lanterns gleaming along the River walk, on the quays and jetties, where the oily water throws back slippery reflections, fish belly lights, momentary glimmers. Rain misting the cobbles into fish scale paths, River sucking at the piers with fish mouth kisses, all watery and dim, silver and gray, evasive as dark bodies turning beneath dark water. Lantern man strolling along beside his wagon, wagon boy tugging, head down, sliding a little on the slick stones. Fish-oil cans in the wagon; fill the lanterns; trim the wicks; light the lanterns; then move on. Behind these two the lantern light lies in liquid puddles on the stones, pools of light, wetter than water as the crier follows after, “Dusk falls, night comes, let all abroad take themselves to home and hearth.” The call so well known over lifetimes it comes out in drawn vowels, “Uhhhs aaaahs, aiiit uhnunms, aaaad ohhhhm aiiinli.”

Peasimy Plot trots along the River path, behind the crier, stepping carefully into each puddle of light to splash it onto the path. Slap, slap, slap with the soft soles of his boots, slap, slap. Light has to be distributed. Nobody sees to it but Peasimy. What good are these puddles with all the dark in between? Have to splash the light around. He does not look behind him to see the pools of light still separate and rimmed with black. He has splashed them; now the walk is lighted.

Never mind what the eyes see. Never mind. It is what the soul sees that’s important.

“Uhhhs aaaahs,” the crier calls. “Aiiit uhmmms.”

Night is already here. Potipur glares in the eastern sky, full and ominous, his face half-veiled in River mist. Viranel is half herself at the zenith, skittish behind clouds, as she becomes at these slender times; Abricor has whetted his scythe on the western horizon and goes now to harvest the crops of night. Peasimy stops in midsplash to contemplate the scythe-moon. “Harvest,” he calls in a whispery fish voice, full of bubbles and liquid gurgling. “Cut down the lies, Moon of Abricor. Foul weeds of untruth. Cut them down, down, down.” Then back to the splashing once more. Pitty-pat, pitty-pat, slap slap slap.

Twelve years old, Peasimy is a neat one in his high-collared coat with the shiny buttons, his tight dark trousers fitting down into the soft boots, his perky little hat perched high on his tight, shiny hair. Daytimes he sleeps, like a strangey, lost in the depths of his sleep as in a cavern. Nighttimes he comes up for air and to look at the moon and splash lantern light. Peasimy knows Thou-ne would wither away if he didn’t splash the light around. It doesn’t matter no one else knows it. All night long he will continue this perambulation, spreading the light. Dawn will mean a bite of breakfast, then pulling the shades down, hiding in the dark. No one knows why, but he’s been that way since childhood. No trouble to anyone. Just see him decent dressed and let him go. So says Peasimy’s mama, the widow Plot. So says her kin and kith. Let him alone. He doesn’t hurt anything. Poor little fellow. Lucky when he can remember his name.

Peasimy … well, Peasimy remembers a lot of things. Peasimy remembers catching his mama putting Candy Seeds on his bed when it was supposed to be the Candy Tree growing there that did it. Peasimy remembers things Haranjus Pandel said in Temple. Peasimy remembers every lie ever told and some he only suspects. Peasimy can recognize true things when he sees them.

Lanterns, now, they are true things. Water is true, and the widow Plot. The lantern man is true, and the crier. Daylight is so true he needn’t even stay awake to watch it. All light is true. Dark is a false thing, full of lies, making you think a thing is one way when it’s actually another. That’s why Peasimy splashes the light. Have to fight the dark. Can’t just let it overcome.