Mahogany trinrose, p.4
Mahogany Trinrose, page 4
She did, asking, “What?”
His huge Gen hands came onto her back, lightly at first and then more firmly. “Close your eyes and concentrate on my touch—my full attention is on you now, focused on this point—now this—follow the touch with your mind.”
She did as he instructed, following the light and then firm touch all over her back, vertebra by vertebra, rib by rib; he worked with an uncanny talent for chasing the ripple of resisting tension in her neck, her knee joints, ankles, toes, her arms and hands, until she thought she could feel the warm sweep of his attention even after he had stopped.
She was almost asleep, yet more aware than she’d been in a long time. Her mind drifted into such an uncritical state that when she saw Halimer Grant walk through the wall and stand looking down at her, she accepted his presence without wonder. He wore an emerald green robe with the hood thrown back. On his breast hung a flashing jewel in the shape of a starred cross.
Suddenly, she realized that her eyes were closed, that she must in fact be dreaming, and instantly the Gen’s presence evaporated. She pushed up on her elbows, only now aware that the lights had come up in the room and Im’ran was puttering around the hot plate producing the delightful aroma of trin tea.
“Did I fall asleep? I’m sorry—I guess it’s just so late….”
“No, you weren’t asleep. But I think you got down a little deeper than you usually do. Tea?”
She sat up, folding the blanket back into its compartment at the end of the lounge. “Yes, I think I’d like some tea. I got cold.” When he gave her the glass in its plastic holder, she said, “But I think I was asleep. At least I had a dream, and I only do that when I’m sleeping.”
Im’ran sat on the other lounge, stirring his tea, saying, “I wouldn’t worry about it if you did doze for a moment. We’ll start our real work in the morning—eight o’clock all right with you?”
His manner was completely different now. She nodded, though, saying, “That’s my usual time. And I have color-memory drill with Mom at nine, so eight is fine.” As she drank her tea, she filled out the accounting form, laboriously reading the instructions for each box and filling most of them with “not applicable.” As she came to the signature line, she paused, realizing that this was a turning point in her life, her first official, legal signature. And she made a decision.
Her mother had given her the first name, Aild, usually a man’s name, to honor a promise she’d made to her own father. But Ercy had never used the name and thought she never would. Now, however, she signed the form boldly: A. Ercy Farris.
Im’ran said as he turned to leave, “Oh, two weeks from tomorrow, hold that evening open. I’ve arranged with Mora for you to observe her transfer.”
Ercy dropped the accounting form into its out box, staring at Im’ran. “Observe—Mom’s—does Dad know?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” Seeing her utter confusion, Im’ran came back into the room and closed the door again. “Ercy, it’s never been Digen who’s refused to let you observe his transfers. It’s me. I wouldn’t let him. He’s still unstable, and I’m afraid I couldn’t handle it. But Mora’s transfer should be fairly routine, and by Zeor custom it’s long past time you should have observed a transfer.”
Ercy took a deep breath, her first excitement abating. She couldn’t count how many times she had asked for this privilege and been denied. “Dad won’t permit it.”
“I’ll convince him, don’t worry.” Then he smiled. “There have to be some advantages to being orhuen to a Controller! Besides, Mora and I may be only adopted into Zeor, but we know a good custom when we see one. Digen has often said how important the experience was for him—and, forgive me, I know you don’t want to hear it, but it was an important experience for Wyner, too. And Mora says she has learned to regret not having had the experience herself. So there’s no way you’re going to get cheated out of it.”
Ercy smiled her most acquiescent smile. “I’ll reserve the evening, then.” But as Im’ran left, she promised herself cynically to save a few horticulture journals in case she was left with nothing to do that night.
Chapter Four
“But Mora’s not a Farris!” Digen objected. “It’s not going to do Ercy any good to observe her transfer.”
“I think you’re wrong,” said Im’ran.
Digen rocked back in his chair, shoving the charts and papers away across his desk. “This isn’t like you, Im’.”
“You handed me the responsibility for teaching Ercy relaxation.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Digen got up and went around the desk, standing in the sun by the window. “It’s hard for me to delegate any responsibility where Ercy is concerned.”
“You know,” said Im’ran, “that’s a great part of the trouble between you two. She hasn’t the faintest idea how much you love her. All she ever sees—all you have ever let her see—of yourself is Sectuib Farris training the next Sectuib in Zeor. And, Digen, sometimes I think you don’t even realize how much you love that kid, because all you think day and night is how crucial it is everything be done correctly for her. Maybe, sometimes, something should be done incorrectly simply because you love her.”
For a long time, Digen stared silently at the rolling green lawns under the spring sun. As always, Im’ran’s observations were too painfully right. “Can I—yet—allow myself the luxury of loving my daughter?”
“I didn’t mean indulging her every whim and fancy. She’s ready, Digen. But you’ve failed to sense it because you’re so intent on not making any mistake with her.”
Digen shook his head. “It should be a Farris transfer. I’ve been trying to arrange it, but—”
“Is there really that much difference, from Ercy’s point of view? She can’t zlin the fields.”
“She’s already getting much more than you realize. I’m afraid it’s the wrong thing to do.”
“Which is more important, that her first vision of a channel’s personal transfer be of a Farris transfer—or that she master the basic states of relaxation?”
“That’s the choice? Is it really that bad?”
Im’ran nodded.
Bleakly, Digen considered a Tecton channel was a thing, not a person. And the better the channel, the more of a thing he became to the Tecton bureaucracy. He was, unconsciously perhaps, training Ercy to withstand the kind of pressure that had broken him twenty years ago. But maybe Im’ran was right again. Maybe the strength not to break under that pressure came from a sense of self that could be obtained only by being loved as a child, for oneself and not for one’s future talents. His brother Wyner had given some of that to him where his own father had failed, so he knew how precious it could be.
“All right, Im’, I’ll trust your intuition. Keep me from being too hard on her. You know how I feel.”
No sooner was Im’ran gone than Digen’s secretary showed in his next appointment, Halimer Grant.
“Hal! It’s been weeks. How’s it going?”
“Under control. At least my Co-Dean calls this under control, and I’m willing to take his word for it.”
Digen grinned. He knew that they had been struggling with a space problem since they’d lost one of their buildings to the flood. “You should have your new building before summer,” said Digen, patting one of the construction contracts on his desk. “But that’s not what I called you about.”
Rummaging in his desk drawer, he came up with a little jeweler’s box, and handed it to the Gen. “This came yesterday.”
Grant took it, opening it with great puzzlement. Then his nager showed one of those slow reactions he had become famous for at Rialite. But this time it was tinged with some sort of reservation Digen couldn’t quite name. The man was an utter enigma.
“Go on,” said Digen, “try it on.”
Obediently, the Gen took the Tecton crest Donor’s identification ring out of its box, all gleaming gold and sparkling gems, and slipped it on his finger, shaking his head. Digen said, “I noticed you lost yours along with everything else in the flood. So I had one made for you. Not that you require identification. Anybody can zlin what you are from halfway across Rialite.”
At last the reaction within the Gen surfaced as a smile, and there was genuine gratitude clearly suffused through his nager. “Thank you, Hajene Farris. I will wear it with honor. You have given me a moment worth telling my grandchildren about—one day…”
Yes, thought Digen, any time the Sectuib in Zeor did anything for anybody, it was a story to awe grandchildren with. Would Ercy ever learn to live with that? He knew he hadn’t.
“Pleasantries aside,” said Digen, “you are posing us quite a problem. I just got this letter.” Digen slid the official stationery across the desk to the Gen. “It says they can’t find any trace of your records. They claim you don’t exist. I, being an empiricist at heart, prefer to accept the evidence of my own senses.”
“Bureaucracies often resemble nothing so much as a kitten tangled up in a ball of twine.”
“I told them to hire some clerks who can read and have them look again. But in the meantime, I think it would be a good idea to put through a request for replacement papers—start a new file for them to lose. Here.”
Digen pushed a set of forms across to Grant, and the Gen took them. Digen said, “This is the third time in the last five years that this exact same thing has happened to me. But the last time was just two years ago. I think things are getting worse.”
“I wonder what would happen if they lost your file?”
“Headline news around the world, that’s what,” answered Digen. “The Sectuib in Zeor Does Not Exist! You know, you might have something there. It would take something like that to cure these papermen of their multiple copies. Whatever—see if you can find time to get those forms filled out. I’ve got to go ship those gypsies off to Carlston for trial.”
Digen got up, closing Grant’s file, and his eyes fell on a green transfer appointment card on his rack. “Oh, here’s your appointment card.” He started to hand it over, then he saw the name of the channel Grant was to be serving. He stopped, staring at the name in complete shock. Mora ambrov Zeor.
He had completely forgotten about that decision.
Ercy had a tremendous affinity for Grant. He thought hard with all his forty years of experience as a channel and decided that Grant might—just might—make up for its not being a Farris transfer. The man was indeed that good.
He handed the card over to Grant, saying, “I’ve also authorized my daughter to observe Mora’s transfer this time—that is, of course, if you don’t object. Donor always has veto.”
Looking at the card, Grant radiated confusion. Digen added, heading briskly for the door, “I don’t have time right now, but Mora would be glad to explain the Zeor custom.”
For Ercy the next two weeks passed in a blur. She completely lost her sense of confidence in her intuitions, and could find no trace in herself of an awareness of her changeover. While she continued to watch hungrily for Grant every morning, she also felt her emotions becoming far more complex than they had ever been. She was gradually becoming a stranger to herself. It must be just that I’m growing up, at last.
On the evening she was to witness her mother’s transfer, Ercy met Im’ran at the lab and they went upstairs to the transfer suite together. Her mother was already there, sitting in the lounge area, sipping a glass of cold tea.
Just since the morning, she seemed to have aged ten years. Her hair, sprinkled with gray, was wound into a braid across the top of her head, but after a day under a construction worker’s hard hat, wisps stuck out in every direction, unheeded. Her deep tan seemed to have paled. She had the thin, wiry Sime build, but now Ercy noticed how the skin of her cheeks sagged.
She’s old.
She walked across the lounge beside Im’ran, pausing only when he stopped to say, “Ercy, I won’t leave until Hal arrives. You’ve never seen her in this condition. Don’t let it bother you. It’s normal. Just remember, she’s a good channel.”
Sitting down beside Mora, Im’ran took her glass and handed it to Ercy. “Make us some hot tea, would you?”
Ercy took the glass, steadfastly casual. Inwardly, she was shaking. Mothers are impervious, omnipotent. But now Ercy knew better. Mothers are human, too.
Does growing up mean losing your mother? Or is it only the illusion of mother that has to be lost? Could I ever give that illusion to a child?
As she went to the hot plate on the sideboard, she saw out of the corner of her eye how Im’ran turned to her mother, sitting carefully apart from her but concentrating his Donor’s attention on her. She couldn’t zlin the fields yet, wouldn’t be able to until after changeover, but she could see the nervous strain relaxing its grip on her mother, and she felt herself relax, too.
She brought the tea glasses on a tray, handed them around, and sat on a wide bench opposite them.
Her mother met her eyes then, and Ercy could sense the effort to put up a brave front. But it was a ragged front, full of gaping holes. It was as if the whole dynamic essence of her mother had disintegrated right before her eyes. Her gaze fixed on the tightly sheathed tentacles along her mother’s forearms. The skin on the tops of her forearms was deeply freckled, and now Ercy could see the network of dry wrinkles under the freckles.
Im’ran said, in that low pitched, professional voice, “He should be here by now. Want me to call and check for you?”
“No,” Mora said, “no, he’ll be here. Digen said he handed him the green card personally.” She met Ercy’s eyes with a helpless little gesture, her hands shaking, her laterals licking out of their wrist orifices.
“Mom, if you don’t want me here….”
Mora shook her head. “It’s all right, Ercy. It isn’t as bad as it looks, Baby.”
Ercy looked to Im’ran, afraid to appeal to him to do something.
Im’ran had been working from a distance, careful not to act as if he were going to serve transfer. But now, biting his lower lip, he moved in to take her hands, well clear of the restless laterals. Under a deep frown, he said, “Let me.”
Mora gave an open throated, trembling sigh. “Careful, Im’.”
“I’ve got it. Lean a little; I’ll just belay for you.”
Five minutes before the appointed time, Halimer Grant came in, threading his way across the sitting room. He stopped, surprised to see Im’ran working. Ercy saw their eyes meet in silent communication, and then, almost like a ballet, Im’ran relinquished his position to Grant.
Her mother slumped in the curve of her Donor’s shoulder, still in hard need but comfortable now that all doubt was gone.
Im’ran asked Grant, “Where have you been?”
“Surely you didn’t think I’d be late!”
Coldly, Im’ran said, “It is custom, is it not, to show at least half an hour before appointment?”
Mora shuddered under the impact of Im’ran’s anger. Grant tightened his grip on her hands, and said to both of them, “Please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean to cause anxiety.” Then he helped Mora to her feet, turning her toward the appointed room. “Mora, do you want Ercy to come with us?”
“Yes,” said her mother, in the barest whisper, as if forcing the word out.
Im’ran stiffened as if suffering with her. Ercy knew that he tried not to be anywhere near Mora when she was in need because at that time he was always high field and ready to give transfer to Digen. Yet Mora was Im’ran’s wife. They’d loved each other since before her father came into their lives. How he must yearn to give her transfer—and he never can because of the orhuen with Father. It was a strange new thought.
“Go on with them, Ercy,” said Im’ran, turning her after Grant and her mother. And then he hurried away.
Inside the tiny chamber, Ercy took the stool in the farthest corner, curling up as inconspicuously as possible, wishing she’d never asked for this and certain at the same time that it would have come, whether she asked or not.
But no sooner had she settled down than Halimer had her mother installed on the contour lounge, speaking in that softly professional tone she’d come to associate with a working Donor. Hal’s voice made Im’ran’s sound colorless and distant by comparison. In moments, her mother was breathing deeply and calmly, and she said, “I want to control this one. I have no particular problems this time.”
“As you like.” He let her take his arms, winding tentacles about his well muscled arms with a lashing force that made Ercy wince. But Grant hardly seemed to notice. A peculiar neutrality came over his face, as if he’d turned his personality off somehow. Her mother’s face assumed an expression she had never seen before, but it was quickly blocked from her view as Grant leaned over for the necessary fifth contact, lip to lip.
There was a momentary blue flash, gone so fast Ercy wasn’t sure she’d even seen it. Then her mother slowly dismantled the contact and melted back onto the lounge in profound relief. Her face was once again Mother. And what does Dad look like when that happens to him? He’s junct.
“You are very powerful, Hal,” said her mother quietly. “For a moment, I suspected you were going to snatch control from me.”
“I felt you falter just after commitment, but then I realized it was only your style.”
“You’re twice the Donor I’ll ever need,” she replied, shaking her head. “You have a style I’ve never encountered before.”
“If it discomforts you—”
“Not at all! That was—excellent.” She tilted her head back toward Ercy. “I’m sorry, Baby, that it wasn’t much of a show. I’m not usually in such a hurry.”
Grant frowned. “I should have spent more time with you. Next time I will. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
He seemed to expect her to say yes, but she replied, sitting up, “No.” Ercy felt as if her mother were embarrassed. “I’m fine. Sorry I snapped at you. Hal—I’ve got to go. They’ll be waiting for me by now.” At the door, she turned to Ercy. “You’d better get to bed. It’s late.”
