Part Three
Chapter 20
THE LAIZUVRY
Three days later the camp was a different place.
The grounds were abuzz with a rush of activity. Tents and pavilions sprang from the ground, an incessant clatter of cookware and craftwork destined for the marshmancay assaulted the air, striving with voices in every stage of timbre and volume for supremacy.
The Laizuvrians were arriving from Todymody by every form of water-craft. Poled rafts hovered patiently while the batohvahns tacked constantly, to the ire of those in the batohrams and larger vaisohs, who had to struggle enough to make any headway against the resurgent current of the Luhvluhv.
The quays were teeming. As soon as one shainu had succeeded in unloading their vaisoh onto the bank of the river they had to back out through four others jockeying for position, vying with each other to be next, regardless of priority, courtesy, or vociferousness. Loud arguments erupted, rams were swung dangerously about in threatening fashion, sprays of river-water were sent toward offenders and innocents alike; and this scene was repeated at every dock all along the quay all the time the unloading was taking place. For all that, it seemed that progress was being made: and actually all the hubbub and commotion was no more than a part of the seasonal rites of the Ealdlazay Fair, and was universally accepted as such.
At the upstream end of the camp, at the point of the bank nearest the island, and hence where the current was swiftest and most treacherous following the unseasonable rains they had had the hand-day before, the ferry-line across the Luhvluhv was being secured by Burfohn and Moerv, who had come up early the day before.
"I'm glad to be done with this cord," Moerv sniffed wearily. "I'm worn out. We had a pretty rough trip up." He watched as Burfohn drove in one last mooring-stake and knotted an extra length of cord to it. "We heard that you had a time of it, too."
Burfohn stood to inspect their work, apparently not listening to him. "Do you think we should add a stake or two on the other side?" he asked Moerv. The Luhvluhv was still swollen, pulling the ferry-line taught where it sagged into the water in the middle of the river. "It must have been a fight getting the batohrams up this flow."
"It was. I don't know how you all managed with the blaorzh vaisohs."
"We didn't have this current to contend with," Burfohn said. "We got up before it rained."
Moerv nodded. He was looking out across the charred plains beyond the camp. "He was out there, was he?"
"Dacoar." Burfohn didn't turn around to look.
Moruh struggled with a packet of stuff that was too large and, moreover, coming untied. She and Merlyfler had finally managed to get their batohram to a dock and hurriedly tossed their things ashore. She was trying to carry things up to the camp while her um found a mooring-place for the batohram. She could hear his high-pitched whine cut through the tangle of voices as he tried to forge a right-of-way through the mass of waiting boats. If only their little batohram was as sharp as his tongue! She stooped, awkwardly reaching around the wayward bundle to retrieve a cook-zhat which had found its way out of loose flap somewhere, only to drop something else after a few more steps. She dumped the whole thing to the ground in frustration, and bent over to re-tie the package.
When Moruh at long last approached their little campsite, already no longer the last one in line, she sighed. She could hear the wail of her baby daughter Mornwahr above the bustle of the camp. "Well," she thought wearily, "she has her prahnum's voice, at least."
"Here is prahnumpa! Here she is! Look, look Mornwahr!" Feeshare's face clearly showed that she, if not the infant, was glad to see Moruh return. She had volunteered to hold her while Moruh brought their things, but her patience had been sorely tested.
Feeshare had been somewhat at loose ends since the fire, as the duties of the advance party were for all intents and purposes fulfilled. She had wandered around the burgeoning camp, looking for her friends, and helping out. Moruh was a lifelong companion of hers; a neighbor as a child, and, as it turned out, a neighbor again now back in Todymody. Little Mornwahr, then, was almost like a daughter to her, although it was rather painfully obvious to everyone concerned that little Mornwahr detested Feeshare with an intensity worthy of the sun at mid-day.
But Feeshare didn't mind: little Mornwahr detested everyone but her prahnumpa with admirable equanimity. Her adoring prahnum, whom she so resembled in many ways, had suffered her scorn and horror ever since her birth, and although he couldn't admit to enjoying the constant frenzied bleating emitted by the child whenever he attended to her, he told himself that at least he was becoming inured to it. He hoped the neighbors were, anyway. Feeshare, for her part, never complained. But she couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable when, in the noisy camp full of busy Laizuvrians, so many of them had stopped what they were doing to stare at her, some with compassion, others with enmity.
Moruh hurriedly dropped the bundle, and rushed to take Mornwahr from Feeshare.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh," she chided in that peculiar prahnumpa tongue to the shrieker, as she took her in her arms.
Feeshare looked up. It was as if an evil spell had been broken. The thunderclouds parted, floods drained away. The onlookers went back to their chores with lightened burdens, and Feeshare suddenly felt she could smile without any great effort again. Mornwahr was happy at last and, more importantly, quiet at last.
"Thank you for taking Morny," Moruh was saying. "I know how difficult she must have been."
"I was glad to do it," Feeshare heard herself saying, to her own amazement.
"Feeshare, Feeshare, Feeshare!"
She groaned inwardly as she recognized the voice.
"So, how is my favorite little numpa?"
She waved a painful good-bye to an amused Moruh, and turned. "I am, er, well. How are you, Greavwah?"
Greavwah was strutting through the camp, shouldering a bundle in such a way that it was apparent that he considered it an enormously heavy load, although it was just as apparent to everyone else that it wasn't. Greavwah was taller and thinner than most ums, with a slight hitch in his step, and an irritating (to Feeshare, at least) manner of standing very, very close to the numpas (only the numpas!) he talked to. He came up very close to her now.
"I am," he paused a moment, "wonderful, now!" Her teeth went on edge as he took her by the arm and began walking her through the campsites.
"I'm glad to hear it, Greavwah."
"Would you like to know just how wonderful?"
"Fo, Greavwah."
"Ha, ha, ha! You are quite a joker, you know. Ha, ha!"
"That reminds me," she said with a maliciously sweet smile. "How is Peeluhz?"
Peeluhz was Greavwah's numpa, not that he cared to be reminded of the fact. The truth was that they found each other mutually disgusting; but at the same time had a kind of bizarre fascination for each other. Greavwah was a model Laizuvrian, physically, but a cipher in terms of personality; while Peeluhz could be described as just the opposite. It was to the wonder (and relief) of all their acquaintances when the two of them betrothed, but to no one's surprise when the estrangement happened. Eventually they came together again, only to separate, only to make amends once more. This pattern of alienation and reconciliation was repeated so many times that it became something like a running joke amongst the clan, particularly in light of the couple's well-known characteristics, and all the numpas soon learned that to back Greavwah off they needed only mention Peeluhz's name.
It worked like a charm.
"Dahnzel, Dahnzel, Dahnzel!" he called out to a pretty numpa two tents down, suddenly ignoring Feeshare as if she were no longer there. "So how is my favorite little numpa? Ha, ha, ha!"
Feeshare exhaled in relief.
"Salu, Greavwah," Dahnzel returned cheerily. "Where is Peeluhz?"
The shainus were straightening up their tiny camps, organizing the clutter of the goods they hoped to trade at the marshmancay, chasing after rioting children, cooking doab over little fires, and generally settling into the restive, festive atmosphere of the Ealdlazay Fair. Most would begin taking their crafts, crockery, rugs, ropes, games and gewgaws over the ferry tomorrow to set up their displays for the marshmancay, the small trade. A few, anxious no doubt to obtain a prime location (although most of the Laizuvrians felt that one spot was as good as another if your material was well-made), were already laying out their goods over on the island. Most, though, were in no hurry to do this, because it meant spending an extra night on the island with their things (the Zhonoys could not be trusted!).
This first night at the bazaar, and for many the next night also, was a special and long anticipated treat. They loved the sense of community necessarily arising from the close quarters, the open air, the distance from their homes. The Laizuvry had few such times of leisure to enjoy, when so many of them could mingle or retire as they chose, and they made the most of it. It was a time to renew friendships, to engage in a little pre-marshmancay bartering amongst themselves (they laughed to think that the Zhonoys never saw most of their best work); but especially it was a time to spend with their shainus.
The Laizuvry were first, last, and always dedicated to the shainu, the family. They selected mates for life; and with very few (much maligned) exceptions they remained loyal and happy. The Zhonoys' promiscuity nauseated them; they didn't even tolerate that kind of behavior from their livestock, and the sounds of orgy carried across the river from the Zhonoys' camp at night were disgusting in the extreme. The Laizuvry equally worshipped their children and their prahnums and prahnumpas, and could reel off at least two hands of generations of their ancesters by name; indeed, this was thought so important that it constituted virtually the only formal education any Laizuvrian child ever received. It created something like a scandal when a child over the age of one hand could not recite two hands of ancesters, and that child would be punished by an extremely embarrassed prahnumpa and a humiliated prahnum by endless drilling until he got it right. Very bright, or very studious, or very proud Laizuvrians of all ages would show off by spouting out interminable pedigrees (with side branches) at anyone who had the temerity to doubt them or the patience to listen to them. The well-bred Laizuvrian, though, understood that it was more refined to recite the required two hands of names, and no more. If, however, those two hands of names happened to include only the most illustrious and successful members of the shainu's past, who was to blame for that?
But the race generally did not take time for these large-scale festivities. They were at work.
After the Ealdlazay Fair each season, the shoz had to be prepared for planting: fertilized and plowed (the Zhonoys had found their description of these labors hilarious, for some reason), aided only by their own clumsy tools and the durable, if unwieldy, metal implements they had succeeded in descibing well enough to the Zhonoys to enable those revolting, but admittedly handy, toolsmiths to make for them. Everyone helped: um, numpa, and child; and the work was hard, because the shoz were vast. But finally they would be through, and the whole tribe set to work on their crafts for a while, waiting for the rains.
After the first good rainfall, when the ground was soft and damp, the Laizuvry turned out in force again. The blaorzh planting began. They always hoped, of course, for the rains to continue unabated once they began, which made it easier to insert the seed at the precise depth reqired, but occasionally the rains would hold off once they had begun, the once-dampened seeds would dry out again and be ruined, and they would have to replant large parts of the shoz. But that did not happen often: once the rains came at the end of the dry part of each season and a new season began, the Laizuvry knew that it would continue for many hand-days to come. The planting would continue through the rain - back-breaking work - again, with everyone pitching in; until at last the shoz were planted, as far as one could see in every direction from Todymody.
Then the race would retire into this city on the Luhvluhv, awaiting the floods, then the eventual end of the rains, and the growing season. They worked on their pottery, and weaving, and braiding. They tended the vashlymoss, they repaired the vaisohs. Nearly all the Laizuvrians had been taught nearly every skill, and they switched off and traded chores to avoid boredom with a natural rhythym that was wonderful, although they failed to remark it themselves. When they were not at their crafts during the wet time, they were in their shainus, instructing children, stirring the doab, playing at beazhat or some other game, together.
Almost without warning one morning the sun would come out, and the days soon became hot and dusty. Last season's blaorzh could now be dried, if necessary, and milled; and shoam could be gathered for the vashlymoss and new roofs. Soon (a matter of a few hand-days), the green shoz blushed gold, and the harvest was upon them again. All hands returned once more to the fields, and the Laizuvry vibrated as a single string with the combined effects of cooperation, accomplishment, and plain hard work.
A few short hand-days of gleaning, cleaning, and preening, and the clan was ready for another Ealdlazay Fair, and another season had gone by.
Moerv looked around the almost deserted hollow, and sniffed. He could hardly recognize the place. But he knew that, come the morning, it would be the way he remembered it from past seasons: crowded, bustling, and noisy. He had noticed last season that the Zhonoys always tended to congregate toward their side of the area, for some reason, and he had been determined then to set himself up in that spot this Ealdlazay Fair, even if it meant coming up alone a hand-day ahead of time. It hadn't come to that, but as it was he had to roust Burfohn out to help him set up the ferry-line, and he had to pull himself across, as those assigned to those duties hadn't begun them yet. But it was worth it! He was the first Laizuvrian on the island.
Merlyfler finally pulled the batohram ashore. Shyay! He looked at the long, long line of boats of all kinds beached between his and the camp, and wished they had unloaded everything at the quay when they had the chance. He had counted on beaching closer to, not farther from, the camp when he had decided it would be quicker and easier to carry these bundles directly from the batohram rather than fight the horrid river congestion another moment. Now he had no choice. He clasped the clumsy collection with arms that almost reached around, and set off.
His arms, shoulders, and back ached horribly when at long last he set the stuff on the ground in front of their little tent. Moruh, without setting little Mornwahr down, had miraculously pitched the shainu tent, stowed away the gear, started a campfire, and had a kettle of doab warming already. In spite of his aches and pains, Merlyfler felt like a very lucky um, and his cares completely vanished from his face when his numpa began putting away the things he had just brought, and gave him his little pride and joy to hold.
Some of the cares reappeared, however, when darling Morny broke out with a wail normally heard only from a newly amputated vashlymoss. Moruh hastily finished.
The light was beginning to fail when Nuzhunpa rose stiffly, holding his half-numb back. He had been bundling shoam all day. He had sent Anyogatoh, Kunahr and Rokay on who knows how many trips across the Luhvluhv, gathering shoam from the far side where it had escaped the fire, and he had bundled it all himself while Runahr, with some help from Zholybet, used it to rethatch the roofs that had been burned off. Runahr had just jumped down from the low eaves, and told him to quit. They were done.
It had been quick work, but it would serve their purposes, and Nuzhunpa smiled at Runahr as he looked it over. The new roofing probably wasn't waterproof, but they could hardly expect any more rain while they were there, and the real reason for the thatch was for added warmth, and quiet, which it would surely help provide.
Nuzhunpa was quite surprised when he finally turned away from the hut and looked out across the shoz: it was covered with tents and campfires and shainus, and he hadn't even been aware of them coming, so intent was he on getting this chore finished.
He was riddled with guilt about the injury to Opumohn, and he had done everything in his power to help that unfortunate fellow. The damaged hut had been turned into an infirmary, and he had Zholybet keeping constant watch over him. Opumohn had not yet regained consciousness, but he would swallow by reflex any water or thin doab that Zholybet could coax into his mouth. His breathing was terribly shallow, slow, and rasping; an agonizingly thin gurgling sound like that of an old um drowning in shallow water.
He had been breathing this way for three days now, almost four, driving Nuzhunpa sahnsaervoh with guilt, driving Zholybet sahnsaervoh with repetition, and driving Burfohn sahnsaervoh with grief. He had sat at his brother's side practically the entire time, except when Nuzhunpa forced him to get some sleep, or sent him to run the ferry-line to give him some air.
Burfohn had been a pathetic thing to see ever since they had found Opumohn on the plain. He had at first refused to eat, but Nuzhunpa had sternly forced him to. No one could cheer him, and he categorically refused to play beazhat until his brother recovered enough to play it with him. The only thing which seemed to stir his emotions at all was the presence of the Zhonoy in a far corner of the same hut. Burfohn glared at it with ill-disguised hatred, and seemed to think that that creature was responsible for his brother's illness.
But that creature was not faring much better than, if as well as, poor Opumohn. The Zhonoy, too, was just the same as they had found it three days ago; unconscious, no longer bleeding thanks to Zholybet's care, but still covered with the red blotches of an obviously terrible malwozzoh attack and the rawness of burned flesh. They had almost left it for dead out on the plain, but Nuzhunpa thought better of that, and once they had got Opumohn situated and cleaned up and as comfortable as they could make him, Rokay and Zholybet went back out and carried in the Zhonoy.
They had unrolled its pack-skin to carry it on, marvelling at its lightness and its strength, and as they did so they saw the beckyrevs, the black pods, fall out. They asked Nuzhunpa what they were, and he looked grave.
"Beckyrev!" he had exclaimed. "They are a most powerful poison. If the Zhonoy has indeed eaten any (and why else would it have been carrying them?), I fear we may not be able to help him much."
"Poison!" said Rokay, looking suspiciously at the Zhonoy. "Dacoar - why was he carrying them with him?"
"There is an ancient story about them, though," Nuzhunpa went on, ``something about living two days in one, and so being able to do the work of two days in one day. But when our ancesters attempted to learn its secret, they found it to be a lie, and the beckyrev to be a terrible, even deadly, poison. But Paisohnprahn himself said that they do have a healing power; though if he knows how to apply it, he has kept it to himself."
His comments had left Rokay and Zholybet full of doubts.
Rokay, perhaps rightly, questioned the motives of a stranger approaching them in the night with a pack full of poison. They had been a small group at the time, and a Zhonoy might well have been scheming to make off with the full blaorzh vaisohs before the Trockzelay. His natural distrust of the mountain folk deepened.
Zholybet, on the other hand, was intrigued by the possibilities of the beckyrev. Here was a Zhonoy, burns over a good portion of its body, with the obvious marks of unbelievably numerous attacks of malwozzohs, any one of which would have brought even the halest Laizuvrian near to death. And yet, after (she supposed) having eaten poison besides, it still lives! The thought occured to her that perhaps this Zhonoy, as ridiculous as it sounded, somehow knew Paisohnprahn's secret of the beckyrev. It was, to her, very mysterious.
Burfohn had been quite disgusted when they brought the Zhonoy into the hut with his brother, and he vehemently refused to have it put anywhere near. Rokay nodded understandingly as they pushed a cot into the far corner. Zholybet, who had committed herself to care for them both, sadly counted the steps between the cots.
Inside, as the twilight deepened, Burfohn heard the rustle of the new thatch when Runahr jumped down. The roof made a big difference inside: it was suddenly very quiet. He could hear the slight shifting of the sharbohn as it burned, Zholybet's feet shuffling, he even fancied he could hear his own heart beating. But these low sounds were, while indeed audible, overwhelmed by the regular but weak and belabored gasping of Opumohn.
It seemed louder now, but not healthier. No, the apparent new clarity with which Burfohn could hear his brother struggle to inhale only dramatically emphasized the pathos of Opumohn's efforts. His chest would raise with a rattling wheeze, then slowly, ever so slowly fall as he silently exhaled. Moment by moment, and on into days, just the same: that little rasp of effort, then silence, over and over and over.
Burfohn sagged heavily on the bench beside Opumohn's cot, his head hanging between his shoulders, his whole being almost palpably exuding a dull numb aura of ennui. He only lifted his eyes to watch Zholybet attempt to give Opumohn a little sustenance.
She dreaded doing it. She was afraid of interrupting his fragile breathing, she was terrified at the thought of him choking on the sip of water or doab; but her unfailing good sense told her that, unconscious or not, he had to eat something. It was always with a feeling of great relief that she watched him mechanically swallow the last drops of his meager meal, and with that she rose to go on to the Zhonoy.
There was, of course, no real pressure on her to save its life, and she had had to overcome a sizeable amount of her own feelings of repulsion toward it to bring herself to care for it in the first place. But over the course of the last three days, she became aware that her feelings toward it had softened somewhat. The touch of its skin as she bathed the ugly burns no longer made her recoil; the sight of its broad, squat shape became more familiar; the peaceful, even sleep - in marked contrast to Opumohn's fitful, uneasy rest - came to seem so natural to her that she found herself able to care for it exactly as she would for a Laizuvrian. And, since Burfohn was keeping his constant vigil over Opumohn, it seemed only natural that she would spend more time watching the Zhonoy. Besides, she told herself, by staying back in this corner of the hut it would be that much quieter for Opumohn.
The dim glow of the sharbohn flame in the center of the hut was the only light now, and she could just barely see Burfohn's motionless back across the room. The Zhonoy's breath was rhythmical and free, and no louder to her ears than poor Opumohn's distant gasps. As she composed herself with some shoam on the floor in the rounded corner she felt weariness descend on her, and she willingly submitted to it, unworried about the Zhonoy, and committing Opumohn to Burfohn's unwavering attention until morning.
Moerv cursed the Zhonoys, he cursed the night, he cursed the uneven ground, he cursed himself. But mostly, he cursed the Zhonoys.
It was a beautiful evening, as dry-season nights went: cool, clear, and calm. Not a whiff of breeze stirred the shoam (what was left of it), and the brightest stars were popping out in the night end of the sky. He had neatly stacked his crockery (Moerv was justifiably proud of his skill as a potter), eaten his prepared meal of pahnbatohn and dried sahvahn, and rolled his blankets out for the night. He cursed himself for his decision not to bring a tent over the ferry. He was getting chilly.
The still, cold air carried the sounds of both camps to his suffering ears; sounds he would rather not have to listen to. The Laizuvrians were laughing, the children merrily playing; he could hear zhats clink together, and he wetted his lips ruefully. He was missing the biggest party of the season.
The disgusting Zhonoys were having a party, too, and his ears were assaulted with their delerious screams, lecherous panting, and drunken arguments. How could they live like that? On and on it went, long after he had ceased to hear any activity from his own side of the river. He tossed and turned, unsuccessfully trying to go to sleep, with his eyes burning with fatigue, but his mind burning with indignation. Just when the revelry seemed to be toning down, some fresh howl would break out, and be repeated up and down the river bank. Don't they ever sleep? His mind and his stomachs reeled at what he imagined was going on over there; they seemed to have no shame, no dignity, no propriety whatsoever. He little realized that the Zhonoys considered themselves quite constrained and businesslike on these expeditions, not that that thought would have helped him get to sleep.
Moerv just couldn't imagine anything worse than the night he was having. He sniffed in self-pity, and rolled over again.
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