The Broken God. David Zindell
be a parable and your shraddha seeds were not seeds at all, but rather your basic beliefs?” The Unfulfilled Father told him, “I don’t understand,” and he swam out into the ocean with all his seeds. There he drowned, and sad to say, he never came within sight of his new island.’
Having finished his story, Old Father rather smugly reached into the bowl and placed a shraddha seed into his mouth. And then another, and another after that. He ground up and ate the seeds slowly, though continually, almost without pause. The cracked seeds gave off a bitter, soapy smell that Danlo found repulsive. Old Father told him that it was dangerous for human beings to eat the seeds, which is why he did not offer him any. He told him other things as well. Subtly, choosing his words with care, he began to woo Danlo into the difficult way of the Fravashi philosophy. This was his purpose as a Fravashi Old Father, to seek new students and free them from the crushing, smothering weight of their belief systems. For a good part of the evening, he had listened to Danlo speak, listened for the rhythms, stress syllables, nuances and key words that would betray his mind’s basic prejudices. Each person, of course, as the Fravashi have long ago discovered, acquires a unique repertoire of habits, customs, conceits and beliefs; these conceptual prisons delimit and hold the mind as surely as quick-freezing ice captures a butterfly. It was Old Father’s talent and calling to find the particular word keys that might unlock his students’ mental prisons. ‘That which is made with words, with words can be unmade’ – this was an old Fravashi saying, almost as old as their complex and powerful language, which was very old indeed.
‘Beliefs are the eyelids of the mind,’ Old Father told Danlo. ‘How we hold things in our minds is infinitely more important than what we hold there.’
‘How, then, should I hold the truths of the Song of Life?’
‘That is for you to decide.’
‘You hint that Ayeye, Gauri and Nunki, all the animals of the dreamtime – you hint that they are only symbols of consciousness, yes? The way consciousness inheres in all things?’
‘So, it’s so: it’s possible to see the animals as archetypes or symbols.’
‘But Ahira is my other-self. Truly. When I close my eyes, I can hear him calling me.’
Danlo said this with a smile on his lips. Even though he himself now doubted everything he had ever learned, in the wisdom of his ancestors he still saw many truths. Because he was not quite ready to face the universal chaos with a wholly naked mind (and because he was too strong-willed simply to replace the Alaloi totem system with Old Father’s alien philosophy), he decided to give up no part of this wisdom without cause and contemplation. In some way deeper than that of mere symbol, Ahira was still his other-self; Ahira still called to him when he listened, called him to journey to the stars where he might at last find halla.
‘So many strange words and strange ideas,’ he said. ‘Everything that has happened tonight, so strange.’
‘Aha.’
‘But I must thank you for giving me these strangenesses.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘And I must thank you for taking me into your home and feeding me, although of course I cannot thank you for feeding me shaida meat.’
‘Oh ho! Again you’re welcome – the Alaloi are very polite.’
Danlo brushed his thick hair away from his eyes and asked, ‘Do you know how I might become a pilot and sail from star to star?’
Old Father picked up his empty teacup and held it between his furry hands. ‘To become a pilot you would have to enter the Order. So, it’s so: Neverness, this Unreal City of ours, exists solely to educate an elite of human beings, to initiate them into the Order.’
‘There is a … passage into this Order, yes?’
‘A passage, just so. Boys and girls come from many, many worlds to be pilots. And cetics, programmers, holists and scryers – you can’t yet imagine the varieties of wisdom which exist. Oh ho, but it’s difficult to enter the Order, Danlo. It might be easier to fill an empty cup with tea merely by wishing it so.’
The Fravashi do not like to say a thing is impossible, so he smiled at Danlo and whistled sadly.
‘I must continue my journey,’ Danlo said.
‘There are many journeys one can make. All paths lead to the same place, so the Old Fathers say. If you’d like, you may stay here and study with the other students.’
In the thinking chamber, there was no sound other than the crunching of Old Father’s seeds. While they had talked, the chanting coming from the house’s other rooms had faded out and died.
‘Thank you,’ Danlo said, and he touched the white feather in his hair. ‘Kareeska, grace beyond grace, you’ve been so kind, but I must continue my journey. Is there any way you can help me?’
Old Father whistled a while before saying, ‘In another age, I might have invited you into the Order. Now, the Fravashi have no formal relationship – none! – with the lords and masters who decide who will become pilots and who will not. Still, I have friends in the Order. I have friends, and there is the smallest of chances.’
‘Yes?’
‘Every year, at the end of false winter, there is a competition of sorts. Oh ho, a test! Fifty thousand farsiders come to Neverness in hope of entering the Order. Perhaps sixty of them are chosen for the novitiate. The smallest of chances, Danlo, such a small chance.’
‘But you will help me with this test?’
‘I’ll help you, only …’ Old Father’s eyes were now twin mirrors reflecting Danlo’s courage in the face of blind fate, his verve and optimism, his rare gift for life. But the Fravashi are never content merely to reflect all that is holiest in another. There must always be a place inside for the angslan, the holy pain. ‘I’ll help you, only you must always remember one thing.’
Danlo rubbed his eyes slowly. ‘What thing?’ he asked.
‘It’s not enough to look for the truth, however noble a journey that might be. Oh ho, the truth, it’s never enough, never, never! If you become a pilot, if you journey to the centre of the universe and look out on the stars and the secret truths, if by some miracle you should see the universe for what it is, that is not enough. You must be able to say “yes” to what you see. To all truths. No matter the dread or anguish, to say “yes”. What kind of man or woman could say “yes” in the face of the truth? So, it’s so: I teach you the asarya. He is the yeasayer who could look upon evil, disease and suffering, all the worst incarnations of the Eternal No, and not fall insane. He is the great-souled one who can affirm the truth of the universe. Ah, but by what art, what brilliance, what purity of vision? Oh, Danlo, who has the will to become an asarya?’
Old Father began to sing, then, a poignant, rapturous song that made Danlo brood upon fear and fate. After saying good-night, Danlo returned to his room, returned down the long stone hallway to the softness and warmth of his bed, but he could not sleep. He lay awake playing his shakuhachi, thinking of everything that had happened in Old Father’s chamber. To be an asarya, to say ‘yes’ to shaida and halla and the other truths of life – no other idea had ever excited him so much. Ahira, Ahira, he silently called, did he, Danlo the Wild, have the will to become an asarya? All night long he played his shakuhachi, and in the breathy strangeness of the music, he thought he could hear the answer, ‘yes’.
Shih
The metaphysicians of Tlon view time as being the most illusory of mental constructions. According to one school, the present is formless and undefined, while the future is just present hope, and the past is nothing more than present memory in the minds of men. One school