“Aha!” exclaimed Questioner.
“So, what was to be done?” The Corojum scowled, posed, gestured broadly in a forbidding movement. “We say Quaggima must not wake to break egg. We say it must sleep. This was not an evil thing to say. The creature in egg … “
“Niasa?” asked Mouche.
“Little Niasa, yes, for we gave it a little name. Little Summer Snake, we called it, for it was laid in summer and so does our own little summer snake writhe within shell. Kaorugi says Little Niasa can go on growing in egg forever and ever if need be. There is no limit to its size so long as it has fires to feed on. Then, when world grows cold, after we are gone, then it can hatch. This did not distress Quaggima—she is called Big Summer Snake—for we had soothed Quaggima’s pain and given good dreams and much good food and drink with our mirrors … “
“Mirrors?”
“And lenses, for it eats sunlight, and Bofusdiaga sings to sun, making mirrors we use to send sunlight down into chasm. So, then, Kaorugi said, we must dance Quaggima to sleep … “
“We is who?” interrupted Questioner.
“We Corojumi and Timmys and Joggiwagga and Tunnelers and Eiger birds, and everyone that moves!”
“I get the picture.”
“And Corojumi said do this thing, and that thing, and the Timmys or Joggiwagga did it, and we all sang, and when Quaggima stirred, Corojumi said no, that doesn’t work, and when Quaggima was relaxed and happy we said yes, that will do, and we put dance together, tiny bit at a time. And because Niasa was not yet grown very great, dance was enough.”
“And you remembered it?” asked Ornery.
“We Corojumi remembered it. It was our job to remember it. And when came next time of many moons, we remembered it, and all Dosha danced it, and we improved it for Quaggima’s pleasure. And each time many moons happened, we improved it more, over and over again. And then came your people, those jongau.”
“The men from Thor,” said Questioner. “I don’t think they were our people. I don’t think they fit our definition of human, even.”
“They came, whatever people they were. And they hunted us Corojumi, and they took skins away. And soon there were fewer, and then only a few, and then none but me, and those young jongau would have killed even me, but for Mouchidi! And all pieces of dance were gone but mine!”
“Each of you remembered only a small part?”
“True.”
“You said, they took the skins away, so they couldn’t come to Fauxi-dizalonz. What have the skins to do with it?”
The Corojum threw up his hands. “You have all your thoughts in one place, in here,” he knocked his head with one large fist. “We people of this world, Timmys, Corojumi, Tunnelers, Joggiwagga, all of us, we keep our memories all over us, in net, under skin. And when we are old, and our parts are worn, we go into Fauxi-dizalonz, and everything is refocused and straightened and made new again. Without skins, what was there to mend? Bofusdiaga tried with jongau, but it was no good.”
“The jongau?”
“Your people who you say are not your people. Jong is like we say, throw away, trash. Them. Bofusdiaga thought, well, maybe they have eaten memories of Corojumi, why else would they want hides? So Bofusdiaga sent Timmys and Joggiwagga and all to bring those persons to Fauxi-dizalonz, and our people went to their town at night, and we tied them and brought them, and pushed them in the Fauxi-dizalonz, and the jong swam through and came out other side, gau!”
“Gau?” asked Questioner.
“Unmended and bent and too dreadful to live, and we told them, go back, go back, be remade as you were—for Fauxi-dizalonz will repair, you know—but the jongau would not and they smelled, so bad we could not come near them. And some of the Timmys went into Fauxi-dizalonz, to see if they had left anything there about the dance, but the jong had left only ugly memories and pains and horrors that Bofusdiaga took much time and care to filter out. Our peoples do not keep such things.”