“In a few days does a new sun rise,” said her daughter, bowing. “At the concert does the sun shine on Stenta Thilion, great artist.”
“Coribee,” blushed her mother, turning a dark, brick color. “Oh, coribee.” So she disclaimed her own talent and laid it upon the Gods of the Gharm, saying, “as the Tchenka will it.”
“No coribee about it. The Tchenka had, perhaps, a part in it. Mostly you did it yourself. Sadly, the Tchenka are mostly likely far away, on the old land. The Old Ones do not say they have followed to this one.” Sarlia shook her head in sorrow.
“Perhaps by now,” Stenta breathed through the steam of her teacup. “Perhaps by now.” There was great longing in her voice, a longing she did not need to explain to her daughters. The Tchenka were the spirits of the ancestors of Gharm, the spirits of the creatures of the planet Gharm, the kindly ones, the guardians. Since the planet Gharm had been first killed and then abandoned long ago, the Gharm did not know what had happened to the Tchenka. Since coming here, the Gharm had had no spiritual protection, and little kindness.
“I rejoice in my deliverance,” whispered Stenta. It was ungrateful to think of little kindness when all in Ahabar had been so kind.
“We pray solace for our kindred in bondage,” whispered her daughters in response. “Coribee.”
Though it was hard to enjoy one’s own deliverance when so many remained behind. It was Stenta’s grandmother and grandfather who had made the escape from Voorstod. Stenta herself was the second generation of Thilions born in freedom. Her great-grandchildren, Sarlia’s and Liva’s grandchildren, were the fifth. Even after all these generations, the plight of the Gharm remaining in Voorstod was a constant pain, not only in an emotional sense, but also in a physical one. What one Gharm felt, all Gharm somewhat perceived, a sensation attenuated by distance but still identifiable. If a Gharm died painfully in Voorstod, all free-Gharm knew of it in their bellies, and wept for it, not only for the pain but for the loss. Since many Gharm died in Voorstod, their deaths weighed upon the free-Gharm in an endless melancholy. The Gharm at home in Ahabar were in many respects no freer than their kindred in Voorstod, though here in Fenice there were thousands of miles and many years separating the Gharm population from the deadly peninsula.
Stenta sat upon a cushioned chair and held out her cup to be refilled by her eldest child. A disinterested observer would have seen no apparent difference in their ages. The slight, lithe forms were of a kind. The tight caps of dark fur were identical. The eyes and button noses and unlined skins appeared no different in the daughters than in the mother. Even the sinuous movements of arms, the mannered extensions of the four-fingered, two-thumbed hands, the ritual courtesies of full and half-obeisance, were the same in both generations, save that Stenta did not bow quite so deeply nor kneel so swiftly. As the eldest, the Gem (for the Gharm saw their old people as jewels to be treasured), she was entitled to deference, no matter that the outsider would scarcely notice how much was given her. Among themselves, they were aware, and what others thought or perceived about so private a matter was of no concern.
Now Liva, seeing the strain settle upon her mother’s face at the mention of kindred in bondage, cast a quick glance at Sarlia and begged, “Tell us of the Tchenka, Mama-gem.”
“You have heard,” the older woman breathed into the steam of her teacup. “Ten thousand times.”
“Were it ten thousand times ten thousand, it were not enough,” said Liva, ritually. “No retelling is too much.”
“So much is true,” Stenta agreed. The stories of the Tchenka were the heritage of the Gharm, to be passed on intact and unchanged to all future generations. Even though the Tchenka themselves might have been left behind—and no one was sure whether they had stayed or died or followed—still their history should be told. They were the spirits of the Gharm, no matter how long ago or faraway. It behooved every Gharm to hear; and hearing, tell; and telling, teach.
Stenta began, singing in the breathy chant that was the best she could manage these days, “Long ago was Billa-needful …”
• Long ago was Billa-needful, waking out of darkness and emptiness, aware only of a something-hunger. What am I? Billa asked itself. Why do I wake thus? Where do I find myself? When is this time, beforeness or afterness? Who is in this place with me?
Long did Billa meditate upon these questions, until at last Billa decided to test first whether any other being was present. So Billa sang one note, sending it into the darkness and emptiness until all the void was filled with the note. And the note went away into silence, leaving no echo and no answer.
There is no answer, so then, I am alone, said Billa-needful. And since there comes no echo, I am in empty; and since there comes no echo, I am before anything has occurred; and since I am before, I wake to create; and since I am in empty, I am All-There-Is-Now.
And long Billa meditated upon these answers, until at last Billa decided to create others which would echo.
I shall make others, said Billa. I shall make some to sing with me. So, Billa-needful sang into the nothing one song, and it was named He-Is-Accomplished. And Billa-needful sang another song, and it was named She-Goes-On-Creating. And He-Is-Accomplished was a male and She-Goes-Creating was a female, and the two of them went out into the nothing where they sang with Billa-needful until all of nothingness was full of song.
And He-Is-Accomplished heard the song and was content, but She-Goes-On-Creating took the song and rounded it and made many worlds of it, large and small, and set the smooth songs spinning around the fiery songs and
