Chapter 41
The next morning Kalus was woken by Kataya, who came to the secluded clear space where he had made his bed on softer ground, with the sleeping bag that Rawlings had given him. In the first light and waking life of morning she was beautiful, and sad, and it was only with an effort that he reminded himself he was not free, to take her then and there, and make love among the sacred rites of Spring. But she showed no such inclination, saying only.
'The Children will go North today, if Ishmael speaks the truth. I want to say goodbye, and I want you to be there with me.'
Her tone was passive, and yet deeply serious. He couldn't fully understand the reason, but consented, giving to her, unquestioningly, the next hours of his life—-giving as only the innocent can, without exacting a price, or expecting anything in return.
They walked together through the jumble of wounded landscape, now growing less stark with the blooming of flowers and the spreading of new leaves. She seemed to know the way by heart, and he followed her with every confidence. They spoke little, but there seemed no need of talk between them, and Kalus felt no awkwardness.
At length the sounds of the sea became closer, and they emerged from the crumpled hills to stand at the high back reaches of the inlet, the fjord. It was not great, knifing inland for less than a mile, and scarcely sixty yards wide as it met the open sea. Yet still it formed a separate world, and spoke of green, unspoiled lands beyond.
>From their rocky overlook they began to descend along an angular path that skirted its northern face. They moved carefully and quietly, as the waterline grew nearer, and the sounds of the Sea more pervasive. Turning a last, difficult bend, they saw the Children among the rocks and moss-covered earth of the uneven slope ahead of them, the margins of their amphibious, Winter home.
As the man and woman continued to advance, a cry of 'Ay, oy!' was heard, and the younger members leapt into the water, as the whales clustered about the lower stones, waiting.
But one of the older males, in particular, showed no fear, and no sign of retreating. Kataya he knew, and trusted, and the strong man with the sheathed weapon he had seen, in the boat, far away. Also, as Kataya had intended, he felt something akin to jealousy at his presence here with her. There was the matter of possession.
This was Ishmael, so named by Kataya—-the second leader, who would be first when the eldest died. He stood his ground in silence, along with the leader, and slowly the others returned, though maintaining their distance, and keeping close to the water's edge.
Kataya asked Kalus to remain where he was, and walked the numbered strides that took her to the fourteen year old Ishmael. He smiled as she approached, and together they stood on the tiny patch of level ground between them. She brought an open hand to her chest, as she had done with Kalus, then opened it toward him in greeting. He did the same, taking childlike pleasure in the understanding of her ways.
'Izmai,' she said softly, pointing to the North. 'You go?'
Then remembering that she had affixed no time, she added. 'This day,
North?'
'Izmai go,' he said proudly. Then his look became one of eager entreaty, touching in its innocence. 'You go, Kai-tai, Noth?' And his arm followed hers in obvious longing, a sweeping arc that to his mind held images of bergs and floes and sweeping tundra, and vast islands of thirty thousand seals: the cold, exhilarating perfection of unspoiled Arctic Seas.
She looked down, as pain clouded her face. How could she tell him, who in naive trust believed that she could follow wherever he led?
'No, I cannot.' But this word she had not taught him, and he would not have understood. She looked up into the huge, puzzled iris of his eyes—-blue, crater lakes that drowned all efforts to reach him. Weakly, the more pitiable because it came from one so strong, she said. 'You come, in Winter, this place?'
But he could not get past the non-answer to his own question. Knowing no other course, he repeated it. 'You come, Kai-tai, Noth?' She shook her head, and there was nothing more she could do or say. He looked hurt, but could not bridge the distance between them.
At this the unnamed Eldest, a supple, wizened hunter of fifteen, grew impatient. This day they must begin the long migration, and it was time to be gone. He raised a bony left hand to his mouth and emitted a whistling, clicking sound that was more of the deep than the land, and which the whales understood as well as he.
Ishmael turned to face her one more time, his own pain not lasting. Coming closer, he touched her with the tip of his penis, indicating possession. Then he slowly turned away, and followed the others into the water. Their restless mounts surged beneath them, and soon they were drifting out of sight.
Kataya stood motionless, as if frozen by a curse, until she felt Kalus' warm hands upon her shoulders. She brushed him aside angrily, pulling forward. But this time he did not relent, listening to his instincts instead. He grasped her by the arms and turned her towards him, holding her firmly as she struggled.
'Cry,' he said. 'Just cry.'
For a moment her face showed bitter conflict, but she could deny herself no longer. She leaned against his chest, sobbing in the uncomprehending grief of one who has spared herself nothing, yet come to no reward. He stroked her hair gently, much as he had seen the doctor do with Sylviana. And though the two women were worlds apart in experience, and seemed so cold to one another, in this singular female emotion of love and loss, they were much the same.
'He'll be dead in two years,' she said finally, not leaving the shelter of his body. 'He wants me, and I would dearly love to bear his child….. If we could only mix our blood with theirs, through interbreeding, maybe we could end the tragedy of sure death in adolescence.
'But they will only mate in the North,' she continued, stepping back and clearing her eyes with the back of her wrist. 'How….. How can I reach him?' She could only repeat herself, an echo of tragedy. 'He'll be dead in two years.' Both turned and looked out to sea, to the place where whale and rider moved, nearly out of sight.
'Goodbye,' she said darkly. 'Always goodbye.'
'You need never say goodbye to me,' Kalus answered, almost before he knew what he had said. He shook his head reproachfully. 'I'm sorry.'
She was neither hurt nor angry with him, nor even soothed and pacified. She seemed, rather, calm with a strange, fatalistic indifference. Her eyes regarded him, slightly mocking.
'I know what you mean, Kalus. You love Sylviana, but feel a sense of loyalty to me. I guess it's better than nothing.' And with this she mastered her emotions. Or so it seemed to her then.
Kalus' mind began to race along strange passageways, trying to find the right words. But again instinct warned him off. He wanted to heal her hidden wounds but could not, and perhaps should not try, until he better understood them. Though unknown feelings were at work inside him, too.
*
They returned to the camp in silence, not touching, not sharing, and if they had dared to admit it, feeling more alone than if each to the other did not exist. They returned to Sylviana's glaring reproach, and to the doctor's knowing questions about the Children, the others having gone off to work. For he was the one member of the company to whom Kataya would open her thoughts; and he, too, shared her desire to understand and cure the baffling self-destruction of the Children's bodies as they neared adulthood, never forgetting that a living soul was carried within.
And as always among the social intercourse of men, many actions and words held cross-purposes at once, some realized, others forming like vague bubbles in the dark depths of the sea of human consciousness. Some would rise visibly, for those who knew how to read them; others would be raised only in the seclusion of after-thought. And still others, unwisely, would be suppressed. For all, in the end, must rise.
'Have they gone?' asked McIntyre, needing only Kataya's desolate expression for an answer.
'We'll get em next year,' he said more quietly.
'Who? What do you mean?' asked Sylviana.
'The Children,' he answered. 'Every Spring they migrate north.' He observed the tension between herself and Kalus, and added. 'You've wondered, no doubt, why the killer whales took up with them in the first place?'
'Yes,' said Kalus. 'Why?'
'Intelligent symbiosis, my friend. Works every time. A hunter like yourself will no doubt appreciate their technique. The youngsters make land some distance from the beaches where the seals lie in their hundreds, then come up behind them with sticks, startling them and driving them into the sea, where the orcas are waiting. Then the Children kill a few themselves, on land, and eat them on the spot. Feeds em both, neat as neat. A lesson for us all, I dare say.' He exchanged a look with Kataya, who said nothing.
'But they'll return next year?' asked Sylviana, still moved by the memory of them, though compassion was receding before the onslaught of jealous anger.
'Or move on to another island,' said Kataya coldly, unable to mask her dislike.
'Oh, they'll be back,' assured the doctor, 'As soon as Ishmael takes over. Only a fool leaves a beautiful princess trapped in the tower forever.' He looked at Kalus as he said this, though only Sylviana seemed to take his meaning, flushing with confusion and resentment.
Though neither of the newcomers could know it, the remark was neither light nor haphazard. The doctor was testing the waters for a procreation problem which struck much closer to home. And though lost in the swirl of double meanings, Kalus realized nonetheless that despite including several couples (he had no word for married'), there were no children among company. He looked first to Kataya, whose expression in return was almost angry, then to McIntyre, who nodded gently. Sylviana would not even look at him.
'Hell, kids,' said the doctor at length, 'I might as well just tell you.' He set down the potted plants he was working on (from which he hoped to make new medicines), and pulled an end chair toward them. Then seating himself like an ancient storyteller, he bade Kalus and Sylviana to sit at his feet. To this only Kalus consented, the two women still exchanging poison glances. But if this was the audience to which he must speak, then speak he would, torn as his own feelings were by the animosity of the two young women, secretly heartened as he realized that Kataya's scorn must be the result of physical stirrings for Kalus—-as strong and healthy a sire as he could wish.
'Of the seven male crew members of the Virgo, four came out of suspension sterile.' At this blunt beginning Sylviana gasped, sensing perhaps what was to come.
'Yes,' resumed McIntyre. 'Of the three still capable of producing living sperm. . .myself not included,' he added somewhat wistfully, 'None are married, or even much attached to a woman still in healthy child-bearing years. They can't father a child,' he explained for Kalus' benefit. 'An unforeseen side-effect of so long a period of physiological inactivity. We have no children, as I'm sure you've noticed, and unless we can overcome our natural timidity and social taboos, we never will.'
He looked again toward the lovely Oriental, trying to gauge what should and should not be said. But lost in her own bitterness, she could give him no sign. So he sighed, and said simply.
'Kataya and I had hoped that perhaps Ishmael….. But he's gone now, and who knows if we'll ever see him again, or even if his chromosomes would match.'
'Ishmael will come back,' answered Kalus seriously, the doctor's words largely lost on him, but wanting to ease Kataya's pain. 'Once a man has touched his own soul through another, there is nothing else in life that matters.' And not understanding the effect that this would have, he looked not at Sylviana, of whom he was speaking, but to Kataya, by way of explanation and reassurance.
At this Sylviana let out a wordless execration, threw down the sheet she was mending, and stormed off . Kalus followed in sudden fear.
'I did not mean—-' he said desperately, but found her door slammed and bolted in his face. In confusion he returned to the doctor, imploring.
'What do I have to do?' he said in frustration. 'Can't she see that there could never be anyone else for me? Why can't she understand?'
'Give her time, my friend,' said McIntyre. 'She'll come around. If you want my observations, you're in her deep, and that frightens her. Just have a little patience, and if a man of science may say it, a little faith. What's meant to be, will always be in the end.' These words seemed wise, yet Kalus could find no comfort in them.
'But my stomach crawls without her. My heart is in my throat, and I cannot sleep. If I lose her there will be nothing. Nothing at all.'
'You haven't lost her, son.' With this he looked ruefully toward Kataya. 'And if I'm any judge, you won't. Just be steady, with open arms, and she'll come back to you in time.'
But as McIntyre continued to study the younger man, he saw that his expression remained deeply troubled, so much so that he was truly touched, as Kalus had been at the simple confusion of Ishmael.
'If it helps, I'll tell her what you meant just now. Kataya and I understood. She's just too close, and can't see it.'
'Would you really do that?'
'Of course.'
'Thank you,' said Kalus, though his fear was not abated. 'I have to go somewhere and think.'
Bewildered and restless, Kalus called to the cub, and went walking off in no particular direction, perhaps heading vaguely toward the solace of the sea.
He tried to tell himself that things would work out—-that he would one day understand and be more comfortable among the baffling maze of human interaction. But it was no use. What was he doing here, surrounded by people and emotions he could not begin to read? Is this what Sylviana had wanted?
He found himself thinking, with sudden longing, of the world and way of life he had known in the Valley. He thought of his brother, who had taken a mate, and wondered if she was yet with child. Perhaps it would be a boy, like Shama, who would not mistrust him, but look up to him in friendship. He thought of the wolves, now led by Akar, his noble friend. Surely he did not mean for them to keep Alaska forever sundered from the pack, or from himself, who would need a mate. And last, though far from least he thought of Avatar, who would always be free. And for a time his spirit ran with him, through the heart of a forest five hundred miles deep.
Was a compromise of worlds possible, he wondered, some meaningful coexistence between the hill-people and the colonists? He tried, but could not imagine it. And what did it matter, if he lost the only woman he would ever love? Again he felt the sudden, sour turning of his stomach, and the debilitating flow of unused adrenalin.
He wanted just to go to her, and take her to him, and tell her he was hers alone, and always. He felt the longing for her touch like a hole in his chest. But what could he do, when she would not let him near her? He had not been alone with her for two days, which seemed an eternity, and she showed no sign….. Anger and jealousy hardly seemed the signs of love.
He could not work it out, and was soon too weary and sick at heart to care much, even for something that touched him so deeply. There was no understanding the minds of women, he conceded in despair. Or of men.
He could only be what he was, and hope this self-honesty would bring him to his proper place in the end.
AND IF IT DIDN'T?
Coming out of the ragged confusion of earth and stone onto a tranquil stretch of beach, he stripped off his outer garments and began to wade out into the waves, stooping to wash away both grime and fatigue. The water was not warm, and perhaps there were lurking dangers—-
'I don't care!' he cried in answer, the torrent of his anger returning with sudden force. He dove and swam out into deeper waters, while the cub remained on shore and barked at him.
Slowly, fighting the undertow, he made his way back to solid ground. OR AS SOLID AS I'M LIKELY TO FIND, he thought bitterly. Emerging truly exhausted, he fell to his knees, then sorrowfully held and reassured his unspeaking friend.
He lay down in the sand like an animal. And slept.