Seed of the Gods

lest he be ridiculed. If a city had stood on the western bank and had been broken and scattered by the titanic upheaval of the earth, the rains would have long since washed away any trace—except, perhaps, for the hard materials, which were heavier than the stones. It was his vague hope that he would find particles of the hard material lodged in the broken fields of stone atop the plateau. It was, indeed, a foolish hope. There was still no connection, except in his imagination, between the Old Ones and the hard materials. But he would not have been content to spend his free time in the confinement of his establishment. His feet tingled from the walking, his scales sizzled when the acid rain struck them, his cells were being used as he lived on his stored air. Yet even if he spent the rest of his life span using his free time to walk the desolate places, it was his life. And even if he never found another nugget of hard material, the mere seeing, the experiencing, the knowledge that he, Rack the Healer, had explored vast stretches of his world with his own feet would be reward enough. When, at last, the storm abated enough so that he could find some hint of air amid the dense yellows and purples, he moved onward, eyes always on the ground. Near the midpoint of the day he came upon a sinkhole and looked down, expecting to see the usual rank growth, to sense the poisonous accumulation of heavy gases. He was amazed to find that not only could he see to the bottom of the rather large depression, but also he could smell the goodness of clean air. The vegetation on the floor of the depression, was not the misshapen plants that grew in other sinkholes. The sparse growth was more like the harmless stuff that grew along the river bank. He squatted to examine his find, peering through the obscuring curtains of gases. He could hear running water. He moved tentatively down the sloping face of the depression, taking stock as he went. He found no deadly elements, only an improvement in the general atmosphere. Encouraged, he continued down until he stood on the floor of the small valley. He confirmed that the vegetation was not the deadly sort. The air was clean. There seemed to be a sort of rising current which lifted the heavy, noxious gases and dispersed them into the overhanging clouds. He advanced across the valley floor, feeling the unfamiliar softness of soil under his feet. He walked gingerly, for only a fool walked unconcernedly on the deadliness of soft earth. This earth, however, was surprisingly free of the hard particles that destroyed cells more rapidly than the most healthy Healer could replace them. He made his way toward the sound of running water and came upon a wonderfully clean outpouring. The water gushed from the rocks underlying the soft earth, bubbling up with a cheery sound, so clear that he could see small particles of soil circulating in it. He tested it gingerly and found it to be scalding hot. He knew then why the small valley was not like the usual low spot. The polar air that lay over the plateau was cooler than the air in the sinkhole which was heated by the water. Even when the heat of the summer lay over the plateau, the air in the sinkhole would still be much hotter than the surrounding air, thus creating upcurrents and discouraging the growth of noxious weeds. He was squatting on the edge of the basin into which the astoundingly clean water flowed from its source in the valley wall. The soft earth under his feet sent out particles, but the quantity, although more than the emission of solid rock, was less than the quantity encountered in a dense cloud, and was well below the danger level for a Healer. A load of worry lifted from his mind and his interest was drawn to the movement of the water as it swirled into the basin. The water seemed about waist deep. The flow was strong. Seeking an outlet from the basin, it had cut through the soft earth to bedrock and loose stone. He followed the stream's wanderings as it looped from the side of the valley toward the center, its entire length lined with the harmless vegetation. The water, incredibly, remained clean. The bed of the stream was covered with loose, rounded pebbles. He had never seen anything quite like it. Near the fall wall, the wall closest to the edge of the escarpment and the river, it formed a small lake and from that lake there was no outlet. Rack concluded that the water must be seeping down through the earth and rocks to the level of the river below. The most pleasing thing about the valley, however, was not the miraculously clean water of the meandering stream, but the relative purity of the air. When a low-hanging cloud passed, noxious vapors filled the valley for only short periods of time before they were lifted by the rising currents. It was almost as if the valley generated its own clean air. He did not understand, but neither did he question. He walked on the strange-feeling softness, examined the harmless green growths alongside the creek, then left the water reluctantly to explore the remainder of the valley. He located nothing as exciting as the water and soon was tired. It was growing dark. He slept with the sound of running water in his ear. In the light of morning, invigorated by sleep and good air, he examined the stream more closely. He knew the erosive effect of moving water and accepted the fact that it was the stream that had cut through the thick layer of soft earth, a layer fully as deep as the distance between his outstretched thumb and finger, to the rocky underlayer. He reached into the water and handled the smooth, rounded pebbles. He could feel the heat through his protective hide—the water was hotter than the hottest day in the southern regions. He was bemused by the smoothness of the pebbles, and fingered them with pleasure, sorting them according to size, arranging them on the green-covered bank. He started with the larger pebbles and stacked smaller ones on top to form a small mound. He was for the moment a child, playing children's games. His mind was idle. At first he did not note the difference in weight as he fingered a small, rounded pebble and lifted it. Then the shift of a cloud let a glow of sunlight through and the pebble in his fingers glowed with a life of its own, yellow and rich. He made an explosive sound through his small lips. Hard material. Of much the same heft as his treasured nugget of gray hard material, but yellow, unbelievably beautiful. Feverishly, he pawed through the pebbles of the stream. His efforts roiled the water with silt until he was unable to see. He berated himself for greed. Many a Healer went through life without finding a single nugget of hard material. He now owned three, and this latest find was, by far, the most wonderful. He spent a long period contemplating it. It showed no signs of having been crafted. It was irregular in shape, but smoothed by the action of the stream. It showed no hint of corrosion, remaining yellow even in the tainted air. Sated with the sensations he received from the nugget, he began to speculate on its origin. Being heavier than the pebbles it had been lodged at the bottom of the stream when he found it. Perhaps hard materials were formed naturally, under the surface. He shuddered. Seated on the softness of the strange soil, he could more fully comprehend the meaning of below the surface. When walking on solid stone, or on the smoothness of the plains of glass, one often forgot that there was a subsurface. Here and on the escarpment's face, subsurface had meaning, for one could see the exposed layers of rock, the different shapes and textures. He carefully placed his hand on the bank of the stream, down low, near the surface of the water. The hard projectiles tingled his small finger scales, but the increase was insignificant. Had the action of the running water cleansed the earth itself? An entirely new concept thundered into his brain. He loved life, revered it, as did every member of the race. He would not have considered breaking the most ancient of laws, lest he lose prematurely that precious gift with which he was entrusted. And yet, he had held his hand below the surface, next to the exposed soft soil of the creek bank and he had lived, had not even been endangered. This valley, he thought, was different, unlike any other spot on the planet, at least any spot he had seen. The air was clean. Pure water cut through the surface earth and exposed pebbles and beautiful nuggets of hard material. Not daring to openly entertain his new idea about the subsurface he walked back to the basin and watched the rushing water emerge from the rocks. He moved a few stones experimentally, placing them where the water gurgled from the confining basin. Guiltily he searched the area and found only solitude. He told himself he was not breaking the law. He was merely shifting rocks— this was permissible as long as the rocks were lying free on the surface. The pile of rocks grew, but the water ran between them undeterred. He filled the chinks with small pebbles, then with gritty small particles, scooped from the floor of the creek. The flow of water was slowed and the level rose in the basin. His tough feet dislodged some vegetation from the banks of the creek and he picked up a piece, seeing that a certain amount of the soft earth clung to it. He was shocked. He dropped the offending bit of green, then picked it up again. It was lying free, wasn't it? He knew he was stretching logic, for his feet had dislodged it. But the vegetation had a wet, spongy feeling and he placed it in the chinks between the rocks of his dam. It held back the water so well that he recklessly trod up and down the banks of the creek to loosen more of the green material. His dam grew, until finally a trickle of water began to run around the far edge. At first the water was soaked up by the soft earth. Then it puddled, ran. He watched, fascinated, waiting for it to begin to cut into the soft material and expose the rocks underneath. By nightfall, his diverted stream was running all the way down the valley to join the old stream bed a short distance above the lake. The water running over the new earth was muddied by its passage, yet the cutting away of the soft material had not begun. Rack spent an uneasy, guilt-ridden night. In the morning his curiosity overcame his guilt, for the running water had begun to loosen more of the earth. The new stream bed was noticeably depressed and here and there rocks showed through. Moreover, the hard projectiles were no more frequent than before. But it was going to be a very slow process, he determined some days later when the bed of his diverted stream was still composed of softened mud. He left the valley reluctantly. Soon he was caught in a fresh storm and weathered it inside his protective covering of the Material. He wandered and explored, but nowhere did he find anything as interesting as his valley. Everywhere he was confronted by bleak, barren rocks, yielding nothing. During a lull in the storms he jogged back to the east, coming on his valley just as he began to eat seriously into his reserves. He breathed the pure air, watched his stream work, and noted that more