“There are many Tchenka,” said Pirva, wonderingly. “So very many.”
“We should do it every place there are Gharm,” suggested Nils.
“Every place there are people,” corrected Saturday. “Whether they are Gharm or human.”
“But the humans do not care about Tchenka!”
“They will. In time. No doubt there are Tchenka for humans, as well.”
Pirva, who knew what the legends said to the contrary was diplomatically silent on that point. “What if there is not enough of the web?”
“Then cut some of the second web, and of the third,” said Saturday. “Each time a Tchenka is raised, you may take sections of the web, provided only you do not take too much. You must leave two thirds of it, for the sustenance of the God.”
“Meantime,” said Nils in a practical voice, “we must do a burial here. Who is dead today in Sarby?”
“In the town,” whispered Pirva. “There are always Gharm dead in the square, where the posts for whipping are.” And so speculating among themselves, they went off into the night to find which of their people had been killed that day, while Saturday and Jep went to Jep’s room to sleep.
They were wakened later when the Gharm returned. Nils shook them awake and asked them to come supervise the burial, the laying of the stuff upon the dead Gharm’s breast, the covering over.
“To be sure this first time we do it correctly,” whispered Nils.
“His name was Lippet,” said Pirva of the dead Gharm. “He was beaten to death. He was of the Water-Dragon clan. Born from the Night-bird people. His personal totem was the sky bug. What Tchenka will rise from this?”
“I do not know which one,” said Saturday. “Only that one will. Or perhaps more than one.”
When it was done, the Gharm stood staring at the place on the ground, now filled in, invisible, branches dragged across the soil, leaves scattered upon it to hide all evidence anything had been buried there.
“It is hard to believe,” whispered Pirva, her voice catching in her throat.
“Does grain grow from the soil from seeds no one sees?” asked Saturday. “Do trees grow in cracks of the rock? There is nothing hard to believe about it. I am She-Goes-On-Creating, and I say to you that the Tchenka will return.”
Pirva threw her arms around Saturday’s waist and sobbed. Saturday patted her, hugged her, got her quiet again. “The Tchenka will tell you what they need. You, Pirva, and you, Nils. You are the Ones Who will hear what the Tchenka says.”
“How long before we will hear?”
Jep looked at Saturday, shrugging, trying to remember, trying to translate his recollections into Voorstod days. How long had it been from the time Bondru Dharm died until Birribat Shum was raised. “As long as I have been here in Sarby,” said Jep. “One hundred days, perhaps. A little longer, maybe. The longer it grows, the easier it will become for the Gharm. And the closer the time, the more you will hear the Tchenka speaking. It speaks like a dream, or like one’s own voice in one’s ears.”
“Like a thought that will not go away,” Saturday agreed. “Try to get a burial in Cloud as soon as you can.” She shivered, remembering the prophet. “There is great need for it there. There’s a slaughterer in Cloud, driving the people like sheep.”
“Cloud is a great city,” said Pirva, turning the packet of white fiber over and over in her hands. “So I am told.”
“Cloud will probably need more than one burial,” agreed Saturday. “Cloud may need many more than one. But we must start with one, as soon as possible. Then when that one is raised, more, and more, until they are everywhere.”
• While Saturday and Jep were busy with the Gharm, Sam wandered about the edges of the forest, getting himself into endless philosophical tangles. Theseus was not with him on Ahabar, Sam was quite sure, and while he wasn’t completely surprised at that, he was disturbed. He had thought that Theseus would be here with him, invisibly, perhaps, but still providing the benefit of his wider experience in travel and adventure. Theseus’s not being here cast doubt upon his reality.
Though his absence might mean only that Theseus couldn’t or wouldn’t use a Door. Or it could mean that Theseus had reality upon Hobbs Land, but not elsewhere. Theseus might be dependent upon Hobbs Land, dependent, perhaps upon the God? In which ease it was not Theseus alone who spoke, when he spoke.
Sam stood beside a tall tree and fretted over this. If Theseus was dependent upon the God, then the conversations Sam had had with Theseus had been conversations with the God. With the God pretending to be Theseus, who had, more than once, been pretending to be Phaed Girat. No one else had such conversations, not that Sam knew of. The God did not “pretend” with other people. Neither Jep nor Saturday had ever mentioned such a thing. So why pretend with him, Sam?
The idea of pretense was worrying. Was pretending the same as lying? If one, for example, “pretended” to a child and the child didn’t know the difference, was that a lie? Did the God regard Sam as a child, who needed to be “pretended” to? Had the pretense been intended only as a sop, to keep him quiet for a time, until something else could happen?
And here, here on Voorstod, what was real here? Was there pretense here, as well? People pretending to do one thing while actually being something else? And why had Phaed Girat not yet come to see his son? When Theseus had played the part, Phaed had been eager to see him. Though that had not been Phaed, really, but the God pretending to be Theseus, pretending …
“Phaed Girat didn’t know anything about their trying to get Maire back,” said Jep, when he and Saturday
