PRAISE FOR THE EXTRAORDINARY NOVELS OF
SHERI S. TEPPER
SIDESHOW
“Tepper’s exhilarating new science fiction novel, Sideshow, and her earlier books, Grass and Raising the Stones … are the old-fashioned kind, despite their futuristic settings; the kind that wrap you in their embrace, that take over your life, that make the world disappear.”
—Voice Literary Supplement
RAISING THE STONES
“Tepper effectively combines satire … inventive social engineering, strong main characters, and a plot that works on both internal and external levels in what may be her best novel to date.”
—Kirkus Reviews
GRASS
“A splendid achievement, one of the most satisfying science fiction novels I have read in years.”
—The New York Times Book Review
BEAUTY
“Rich, multitudinous, witty, metaphysical, continually surprising, Beauty is a feast.”
—Locus
AFTER LONG SILENCE
“A tremendously exciting and inventive novel, with excellent characterizations and a taut plot … Absolutely fascinating.”
—Anne McCaffrey
THE GATE TO WOMEN’S COUNTRY
“Lively, thought-provoking … The plot is ingenious, packing a wallop of a surprise…. [Tepper] takes the mental risks that are the lifeblood of science fiction and all imaginative narrative.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin, Los Angeles Times
Other Bantam Books by Sheri S. Tepper
THE GATE TO WOMEN’S COUNTRY
BEAUTY
GRASS RAISING THE STONES
SIDESHOW
A PLAGUE OF ANGELS
GIBBON’S DECLINE AND FALL
BEHOLD NOW BEHEMOTH
which I made with thee….
He is the chief of the ways of God.
The Book of Job
Dawn on Dinadh.
Deep in the canyonlands shadow lies thickly layered as fruit-tree leaves in autumn. High on the walls the sun paints stripes of copper and gold, ruby and amber, the stones glowing as though from a forge, hammered here and there into mighty arches above our caves. Inside the caves, the hives spread fragrant smoke, speak a tumult of little drums, breathe the sound of bone flutes. Above all, well schooled, the voice of the songfather soars like a crying bird:
“The Daylight Woman, see how she advances, she of the flowing garments, she of the golden skin and shining eye….”
I do not speak with Daylight Woman. I revere her, as do all Dinadhi, but it is Weaving Woman I plead with, am pleading with. Origin of all patterns, I pray, let my shuttle carry brightness!
Each morning before first light, songfather comes to the lip of our cave, where it pushes out, pouting above the darkness below. There he stands, hearing the far faint sounds of daysongs from the east, raising his voice when first light touches the rimrock above, using his song to coax the light down the great wall. Today I stand unnoticed in the shadow beside the hive, listening as the song flows north and east and west into a dozen canyons, past a hundred hives, stirring reverberations and resonances, joining a great warp and woof of sound that follows Daylight Woman’s eternal march westward. Dawnsong, so the songfather tells us, endlessly circles our world like the belt that runs from the treadle to the wheel, and thus Dinadh is never without welcome to the Lady of Light.
One time we had another lady. One time we had another father, too, but they were relinquished long ago, when the terrible choice was made. Though the songfathers assure us we were made for that choice, we people, we women, sometimes I grieve over it. Sometimes in the night, darkness speaks to me, and the stars call my name. Saluez, they cry, Saluez, look at us, look at all the mysteries in the night….
But still we have appropriate and sufficient deities. We have Weaving Woman and Brother and Sister Rain, and many others. And Lady Day. In darkness, one could step into error. In cloud or fog—rare enough anywhere on Dinadh—one could stray from the right path. Led by Daylight Woman, we walk only the chosen trail, the wise way, and each morning and evening the songfathers celebrate her shining path.
“The lighted path, the chosen way,” intones Hallach, in the words I had anticipated. I hear those words coming back from farther north, where the canyon rim is lower and comes later into the light. Though it sounds like an echo, it is being sung by the songfather of Damanbi. From where I stand I can hear light welcomed not only from Damanbi but also from beyond it, from Dzibano’as and Hamam’n. When the wind blows from the east, we hear the song from Chacosri, around the corner in Blacksoil canyon.
I am not the only listener. Inside the hive everyone is gathered behind the doorskins listening, waiting the time of release. Children jitter impatiently. Some men and women paint their faces to ready themselves for the day. Old people with many tasks confronting them stand stolidly, wishing the welcome finished.
And I, Saluez? I wish it could go on forever. I wish the moment could stand frozen in time and not move at all.
“See her rise,” sings Hallach. “See her dance in garments of fire. See dark withdraw, exposing the world to her grace.”
It is planting season, a time to consider fecundity; so songfather sings now to Brother Big Rain, begging for storm upon the heights, and to Sister Deep Rain, begging for long slow drizzle that will wet the canyons and fill the springs. He mentions the top spring and pool, the lower spring and pool, the waterfall that spreads its moist lace over the rock, the wetness of the bottomland where the summer crops will grow. He sings to Weaving Woman of the pattern of foods eaten at different seasons.
No doubt songfather is eager for summer food, as we all are. We are all sick of winter-fungus, life-bread, grown in the hives during cold time, using the warmth of our bodies, the waste of our bodies to feed itself. It has no taste. It keeps us alive, but it gives no pleasure. During winter, all the pleasurable food must be saved for others, for there are worse things than mere tastelessness.
But soon the time of winter-fungus will be past. First-water has already been carried to the fruit trees, to wake them from winter. Now songfather sings of
