Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

Awakeners

Awakeners

NORTHSHORE / SOUTHSHORE

Sheri S Tepper

CONTENTS

NORTHSHORE

SOUTHSHORE

NORTHSHORE

1

There was no need for watchmen on the boats that plied the World River. Since everything moved at the same speed, pulled by the same invincible tides, there was little chance of collision; this no less on the barge Gift of Potipur than on any other boat. Thrasne, third assistant owner’s-man, had appointed himself watchman nonetheless, borrowing the title from those who manned the gates between townships on North shore.

Northshore.

North shore with its Awakeners and frag powder merchants, its oracular Jarb Mendicants and blue-faced priests of Potipur, glittering with sacred mirrors. North shore, with its processions of black Melancholies, flailing away at the citizens with their fish skin whips and given good metal coin to do it. North shore, with its puncon orchards and frag groves and wide fields of white-podded pamet and blue-tasseled grain.

And Northshore’s River’ edge, where lean forms of stalking Laughers, tight-helmed in black, announce their approach with cries of scornful laughter, ha-ha, ha-ha, making the heretics run for cover. Echoing the Laughers, stilt-lizards hoot through their horny lips, scattering the song-fish from around their reed like legs only to snatch them up one by one to gulp them down headfirst. Ha-ha ha-ha.

Once in a while Thrasne would see the up-pointed finger of a Tower scratching at the sky, fliers gathered around it like flies around dead fish. Once in a greater while he would see the lonely knuckle of a Jarb House. And the River itself, some places smooth as a rain pond, other places full of rocks as a worker pit, everywhere dotted with blight-buoys and striped with jetties, as wide as half the world.

Township after township, town after town, with fences between to keep people from moving east and gates between to let people move west, the World River tugging the ships along on the endless tides, and all the panoply of life laid out for Thrasne’s watching.

He knew watchmen were necessary on land to keep foolhardy youths from sneaking between townships in the forbidden direction or greedy caravaners from rushing too quickly westward, clogging the orderly flow of commerce. He knew that on a boat a watchman could only watch, but that was what Thrasne did best. He wasn’t bad at handling sails or sculling oars. He could make the fragwood deck gleam as well as any boatman. He could give orders and see they were carried out, which is what gained him the third assistant’s post. And he could stow a cargo so that what was wanted next was always on top. These were necessary and useful talents, but he felt his talent for watching was better than these. Certainly it was more developed.

He had created a little cubby in the fore wall of the owner-house, up top deck, where the ventilation shaft opened from the forward hold. Across this shaft he rigged a high grating of poles with a sack of loose pamet on top. When his round was done for the day he could sly up to top deck, wait until no one was looking, then hang himself by his fingertips from the owner-house roof with his toes on a hand wide railing and shinny around into the cubby. No windows there; no owner’s wife looking for anyone not occupied so she could find something unnecessary for them to do; only the sun-warmed boards of the owner house wall vibrating to the ceaseless flow of the tides. Sometimes he’d stay until dark, and sometimes past that if there were things to see.

It was from the cubby he had first seen a flame-bird set fire to its nest, from the cubby he’d first seen a strangey, rising from the depths like some great green balloon, looking at him out of huge, wondering eyes from its fringes as it spit its bones at him.

It was from the cubby he had first seen a whole ship and its crew caught by blight, drifting ever farther into the unknown southern currents with wooden men standing at the rail as though they’d been carved there.

It was from the cubby he had watched the golden ship of the Progression gliding by on its seven-year journey, the doll-like figure of the Protector of Man held high on the arms of the personal guards.