The Broken God. David Zindell
yes?’
‘So, it’s so. There is life on many planets,’ Old Father corrected. ‘How is it that you weren’t certain of this?’
Danlo brushed his knuckles against the rug’s soft wool. His face was hot with shame; suddenly he hated that he seemed to know so little and everyone else so much.
‘Where do you come from, Danlo?’
In a soft voice, which broke often from the strain of remembering painful things, Danlo told of his journey across the ice. He did not tell of the slow evil and the death of his people because he was afraid for Old Father to know that the Devaki had been touched with shaida.
Old Father closed his eyes for a while as he listened. He opened them and looked up through the skylight. Danlo thought there was something strange about his consciousness. It seemed to soar like a flock of kitikeesha, to divide and regroup without warning and change directions as if pursued by a snowy owl.
‘Ahhh, that is a remarkable story,’ Old Father said at last.
‘I am sorry I rose my spear to you, sir. I might have killed you, and this would have been a very bad thing because you seem as mindful and aware as a man.’
‘Thank you,’ Old Father said. ‘Oh ho, I have the awareness of a man – this is a rare compliment indeed, thank you!’
‘You are welcome,’ Danlo said very seriously. He hadn’t yet developed an ear for Fravashi sarcasm, and in his naive way, he accepted Old Father’s words without looking for hidden meaning. ‘You seem as aware as a man,’ he repeated, ‘and yet, on the beach, you made no move to defend yourself. Nor did you seem afraid.’
‘Would you really have killed me?’
‘I was very hungry.’
‘Oh ho!’ Old Father said, ‘there is an old, old rule: even though you would kill me, I may not kill you. The rule of ahimsa. It is better to die oneself than to kill. So, it’s so: never killing, never. Never killing or hurting another, not even in your thoughts.’
‘But, sir, the animals were made for hunting. When there is hunger, it is good to kill – even the animals know this.’
‘Is that true?’
Danlo nodded his head with certainty. ‘If there were no killing, the world would be too full of animals, and soon there would be no animals anywhere because they would all starve.’
Old Father closed both eyes then quickly opened them. He looked across the room at one of his shelves of musical instruments. As he appeared to study a collection of wooden flutes which looked similar to Danlo’s shakuhachi, he said, ‘Danlo the Wild – if you really lived among the Alaloi, you’re well named.’
‘I was born into the Devaki tribe.’
‘I’ve heard of the Devaki. They’re Alaloi, like the other tribes even further to the west, isn’t that true?’
‘Why should I lie to you?’
Old Father looked at him and smiled. ‘It’s known that when the ancestors of the Alaloi first came to this world, they carked themselves, their flesh. Ah ha, carked every part into the shape of very ancient, primitive human beings called Neanderthals.’
‘Neanderthals?’
‘The Alaloi have hairy bodies like Neanderthals, muscles and bones as thick as yu trees, faces like granite mountains, ah ho! You will forgive me if I observe that you don’t look very much like a Neanderthal.’
Danlo didn’t understand what Old Father meant by ‘cark’. How, he wondered, could anyone change the shape of his body? And weren’t the Devaki of the world? Hadn’t they emerged from the Great Womb of Time on the first morning of the world? That the Devaki looked much as Old Father said, however, he could not deny.
‘My father and mother,’ he said, ‘were of the Unreal City. They made the journey to Kweitkel where I was born. They died, and Haidar and Chandra adopted me.’
Old Father smiled and nodded politely. For the Fravashi, smiling is as easy as breathing, though they have learned the awkward custom of head nodding only with difficulty. ‘How old are you, Danlo?’
He started to tell Old Father that he was thirteen years old, but then remembered that he must have passed his fourteenth birthday at the end of deep winter, somewhere out on the ice. ‘I have lived fourteen years.’
‘Do fourteen-year-old Devaki boys leave their parents?’
Again, Danlo’s face burned with shame. He didn’t want to explain how his parents had died. He pulled back the blanket covering his groin and pointed to his membrum. ‘I have been cut, yes? You can see I am a man. A man may journey where he must.’
‘Ah ha, a man!’ Old Father repeated. ‘What is it like to be a man at such a young age?’
‘Only a man would know,’ Danlo answered playfully. And then, after a moment of reflection, he said, ‘It is hard – very hard.’
He smiled at Old Father, and in silence and understanding his smile was returned. Old Father had the kindest smile he could have imagined. Sitting with him was a comfort almost as deep as sitting in front of the flickering oilstones on a cold night. And yet, there was something else about him that he couldn’t quite define, something not so comforting at all. At times, Old Father’s awareness of him seemed almost too intense, like the hellish false winter sun. At other times, his attention wandered, or rather, hardened to include Danlo as merely one of the room’s many objects, and then his intellect seemed as cold as glacier ice.
‘Oh ho, Danlo the Wild, I should tell you something.’ Old Father laced his long fingers together and rested his chin in his hands. ‘Most people will doubt your story. You might want to be careful of what you say.’
‘Why? Why should I be careful? You think I have lied to you, but no, I have not. The truth is the truth. Am I a satinka that I would lie to others just for the sport? No, I am not a liar, and now it is time for me to thank you for your hospitality and continue my journey.’
He was attempting to stand when Old Father placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Sit a while longer. Ho, ho! I can hear the truth in what you say, but others do not have this ability. And, of course, even hearing the truth is not the same as knowing it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Old Father whistled slowly, then said, ‘This will be hard for you to understand. But so, it’s so: It is possible for a human being to cast away true memories and implant new ones. False ones.’
‘But memory is memory – how can memory be cast away?’
‘Ah, oh, there are ways, Danlo.’
‘And how can memories be implanted? Who would want to remember something unreal?’
‘Oh ho, but there are many people who desire false memories, a new reality, you see. They seek the thrill of newness. To cark the mind in the same way they cark the body. Some people sculpt their bodies to resemble aliens or according to whatever shape is fashionable; some like to be aliens, to know a wholly different experience. Most people will conclude that you, Danlo the Wild, must have merely imprinted the Alaloi reality.’
‘But why?’
‘To be what you want to be: isn’t this the essence of being human?’
‘I do not know,’ Danlo said truthfully.
Old Father smiled, then bowed his head politely, in respect for the seriousness of effort with which Danlo received his words. Painfully, with infinite care and slowness, he arose to make some tea. ‘Ahhh!’ he grunted, ‘ohhh!’ His hips clicked and popped with arthritis; he could have gone to any cutter in the Farsider’s Quarter and ordered new hips, but he disdained bodily rejuvenations of any sort. He crossed the room, opened a wood cabinet, and from a shiny blue pot poured steaming tea into