The Anome Read online

  “We sustain the energy of our bodies,” intoned Osso. “The style of victual, coarse or fine, is a matter of indifference. Be firm with yourself. Direct your mind from the assault of the brute appetite; find some abstract occupation upon which to focus your attention. I tied heraldic knots with imaginary cords; another Ecclesiarch, a Six-Spasm, memorized prime numbers. There are many such occupations to which you can put your mind.”

  “I know just the thing,” said Mur with something like enthusiasm. “I will consider musical sounds.”

  “Use whatever device you find helpful,” said Osso. “So then, be guided. I can counsel; but progress must be made by yourself. Have you given thought to your Male-name?”

  “Not yet, soul-father.”

  “It is not too early to do so. A proper name can be inspirational and exalting. In due course I will offer a list of suggestions; but for today, that is all.”

  Mur returned down the hill. Eathre was busy in the cottage; he wandered west along Rhododendron Way to the camp which the musicians had long vacated. Feeling hungry, he went up into the berry thicket, picked and ate berries with no thought for Osso’s adjurations to abstraction. Then he looked up the hill to the temple complex, and stared a full five minutes. Somewhere in his mind cogitation occurred; he was aware of no train of ideas, but presently he made a sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a contemptuous snort.

  When he returned to the cottage Eathre was drinking tea. Mur thought that she seemed tired and wan. She asked: “How went the meeting with soul-father Osso?”

  Mur grimaced. “He told me to practise purity. I am not to play with girls.”

  Eathre silently sipped her tea.

  “He told me to curb my appetites. I am also to take a name.”

  Eathre acquiesced. “You are old enough to name yourself a name. What will it be?”

  Mur gave a glum shrug. “Soul-father will send me down a list.”

  “He did the same for Glynet’s son Neech.”

  “Did Neech take a name?”

  “He called himself Geacles Vonoble.”

  “Hmf. And who were they?”

  Eathre said tonelessly: “Geacles was the architect of the temple; Vonoble composed the Achiliadnid Dithyrambs.”

  “Hmf. So I must call fat Neech Geacles.”

  “That is now his name.”

  Four days later a Pure Boy pushed a long stick across the boundary with a paper in its cleft end. “A missal from Great Male Osso.”

  Mur took the paper into the cottage, and puzzled out the sense of the characters, with occasional help from Eathre. His face grew longer and longer as he read: “Bougozonie, the Seven-Spasm Ecclesiarch. Narth Homank, who ate but one nut and one berry each day. Higajou, who reorganized Pure Boy training. Faman Cocile, who allowed himself to be gelded by Shimrod Forest bandits rather than alter his creed of non-violence and peace. Borgad Polveitch who denounced the Ambisexual Heresy …” At last Mur put aside the paper.

  “What is your selection?” asked Eathre.

  “I can’t make up my mind.”

  Three months later Mur was summoned to a second conference with his soul-father at the under-room. Osso again advised Mur on particularities of conduct. “It is not too early to begin carrying yourself in the style of a Pure Boy. Each day put aside one adjunct of your old child’s life. Study the child’s Principary, with which you will be supplied. You have selected a name for yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Mur.

  “And what is your Male-name to be?”

  “I now call myself Gastel Etzwane.”

  “‘Gastel Etzwane’! Where in the name of everything extraordinary did you derive this nomenclature?”

  Mur spoke placatingly. “Well — naturally I considered your suggestions, but I thought I would like to be someone different. A man who passed along Rhododendron Way gave me a book called ‘Heroes of Old Shant’, and here I found my names.”

  “And who is ‘Gastel’? And who is ‘Etzwane’?”

  Mur, or Gastel Etzwane, as was now his name, looked uncertainly up at his soul-father, in whom he had expected familiarity with these magic personalities. “Gastel built a great glider of withe and web, and launched himself from Mount Haghead, intending to fly the breadth of Shant, but when he came to Cape Merse, rather than alighting, he sailed on over the Purple Ocean toward Caraz*, and was never seen again … Etzwane was the greatest musician ever to wander Shant.”

  * Caraz: (1) A color, mottled of black, maroon, plum, with a dusting or sheen of silver-gray; symbolic of chaos and pain, macabre events in general. (2) The largest of Durdane’s three continents.

  Osso was silent for half a minute, seeking words. At last he spoke, in ponderous opprobrium: “A crazy aeronaut and a tune-twanger: these are then your exemplars. I have failed to inculcate in you the proper ideals; I have been remiss, and it is clear that I must, in your case, exert myself more energetically. Your name is not to be Gaswane Etzel, or whatever. It shall be Faman Bougozonie, whose attributes are immeasurably more relevant and inspiring. That is all for today.”

  Mur — he refused to think of himself as Faman Bougozonie — returned down-slope, past the tannery, where he loitered to watch the old women at their tasks, then slowly proceeded home.

  Eathre asked, “Well then, and how did it go today?”

  Mur said, “I told him my name was Gastel Etzwane; he said, no, it was Faman Bougozonie.”

  Eathre laughed, and Mur looked at her in melancholy accusation.

  Eathre became sober. She said, “A name means nothing; let him call you what he wants. You’ll quickly get used to it. And to the life of a Chilite.”

  Mur turned away. He brought out the khitan and touched the strings. After a few moments he attempted a melody, with accents from the rattle-box. Eathre listened approvingly, but presently Mur halted and inspected the instrument with disfavor. “I know so little, so few tunes. I can’t strike the side-strings or use the brilliancy buttons or the slurs.”

  “Skill doesn’t come easily,” said Eathre. “Patience, patience …”

  Chapter III

  At the age of twelve Mur, Faman Bougozonie, Gastel Etzwane — the names mingled in his mind — underwent Purification. In company with three other boys, Geacles, Morlark and Illan, he was shorn skin-bald, then washed in the bitterly cold water of the sacred stream which welled up below the temple. After the first submersion the boys lathered themselves with aromatic tincture, and once again submitted themselves to the bone-wrenching chill. Clammy, naked, shivering, the boys marched into a room heavy with the smoke of burning agapanthus. From holes in the stone floor steam arose; in a mixture of steam and smoke the boys gasped, sweated, coughed, and presently began to totter. One by one they stumbled to the floor; when the doors opened they barely were able to raise their heads.

  The voice of the Chilite supervising the purification rang through the air: “To your feet, back to the clean water! Are you of such soft fiber? Let me see who wants to make a Chilite of himself!”

  Mur struggled erect. One other boy, Geacles Vonoble, did likewise, and swaying, clutched at Mur. Both fell. Mur brought himself once more erect, and helped Geacles to his feet. Geacles pushed Mur aside and loped splay-footed to the pool. Mur stood gazing with numb horror at the other two boys. Morlark lay with eyes bulging, a trickle of blood leaking from his mouth. Illan seemed unable to control his movements. Mur leaned forward, but the bland voice of the monstrator halted him. “To the pool, as fast as possible! You are being watched and gauged.”

  Mur tottered to the pool and gave himself to the chill. His skin felt dead; his arms and legs were heavy and stiff as iron posts. An inch at a time he dragged himself up on the stone, and somehow stumbled along a white-tiled passage into a chamber lined with benches. Here sat Geacles, swathed in a white robe, well-satisfied with himself.

  The monstrator tossed a similar robe to Mur. “Your skins are flushed of stain; for the first time since the necessary depravity of birth yo
u are clean. Attention then to Argument One of the Chilite Procourse! Man enters the world through the genital portal; an original taint which by cleansings and attitudes the Chilite casts aside, like a serpent molting a skin, but which ordinary men carry like a stinking incubus all the way to their graves. Drink!” He handed each boy a beaker of thick liquid; they drank. “Your first purge …”

  Mur spent three days in a cell, with cold sacred water for sustenance. At the end of this time he was required to enter the sacred well, lather himself with tincture and rinse. More dead than alive he crept out into the sunlight a Pure Boy.

  The monstrator gave him succinct instructions. “I need not detail the strictures; you are familiar with them. If you taint yourself you must undergo a new purification. I advise against it. Osso Higajou is your soul-father and not the least rigorous of the Chilites. He deplores the most trivial contact with the Female Principle. I have known him to berate a Pure Boy for enjoying the fragrance of a flower. ‘The flower is a female procreative organ of the plant —’ so Great Male Osso exclaimed ‘— and there you stand with your nose pushed into it.’ Trust Osso Higajou to guide you in the Rotes. Think purity, live purity and make sure that Great Male Osso recognizes your purity! So now — to your bay in the lower compound. You will find there wafers and porridge. Eat in moderation; tonight meditate.”

  Mur went to the bay — an alcove in an open-ended chamber under the temple walls — and gulped down the food. The suns danced below the horizon; the sky became purple, then star-shot black. Mur lay down on his back, wondering what to make of his new existence. He felt intensely alert; by some unnamable faculty he seemed to know the precise condition of every person of Bashon.

  Geacles Vonoble sat across the chamber in his own bay, and pretended not to notice Mur. The two were alone. Morlark and Illan had not yet completed their purification; the more advanced Pure Boys were at the evening Beatitudes. Mur considered going across to Geacles’ bay for conversation, but was deterred by Geacles’ posture, one of pious reverie. Geacles was at once brittle and devious, affable and intent. He was not a handsome lad, with puffy cheeks and a plump torso on long thin legs. His yellow-brown eyes were round as a bird’s and avid for sight, as if Geacles could never have all the seeing he wanted. Mur decided definitely against seeking Geacles’ company.

  He left his bay and went out to sit at the base of the temple wall. Halfway up the sky glistened a great irregular clot of light, sparked with fifty first-magnitude stars, the night sky’s most notable object. It cast a pallid light and created shadows blacker than black: the Schiafarilla, which figured in the history of Durdane. Some said that Earth, the legendary home of men, lay beyond the Schiafarilla. From within the chamber came Geacles’ voice reciting aloud an Achiliadnid ode. Mur listened a moment. In spite of his fatigue, in spite of the monstrator’s warnings, in spite of Great Male Osso, Mur would have slipped off down the hill to visit his mother had it not been for Geacles. Geacles saw everything, knew everything. Still where was the harm in stretching his legs a bit? Mur sauntered forth, around the hill. He passed above the tannery, now dark and quiet, but reeking with a hundred odors in conflict … From behind him came a small noise. Mur looked back, then stepped into the shadow of the chemical shed. He waited. A furtive sound. Footsteps: hastening, pausing, hastening again. A figure came past, peering ahead with mischievous intensity: Geacles.

  Mur watched him sidle around the angle of the tannery. Geacles worked on the principle that what was bad for others was good for himself, and hoped to gain advantage of some unspecified sort by spying. So much was clear. Mur stood quiet in the dark, not particularly surprised nor even angry; it was what he expected of Geacles … Not too far away was the meditation chamber where young Chilites gathered before entering the temple for nocturnal communion with Galexis. Mur slipped through the shadows to a soaking vat. Holding his breath against the stench he prodded and pulled with a turning prong and succeeded in lifting a hide. At a gingerly half-trot he carried it up and around to the meditation chamber. Through the window came a mumble of voices: “… Galexis of a million beatific forms, individual but universal, for all but for each alone, submissive but magnificent in your forward search; we avert our souls from sordid stuffs, the greases and taints, the First Order Palpabilities!”

  Then voices a half-octave lower, in response: “Tonight all will be well; tonight all will be well.”

  Then the start of a new declamation: “Galexis of the myriad colors, the infinite graces —”

  Through the open window Mur tossed the hide. A startled curse interrupted the declamation. Mur trotted back to his bay. Minutes later three of the young Chilites came to look into the chamber. Mur, in the recommended invocative posture, feigned sleep. At Geacles’ bay a Chilite gave a low hoarse call, “One is gone; make search, make search! The Pure Boy Geacles!”

  They ran back through the pale starlight and discovered Geacles lurking below the tannery. He protested innocence with every degree of fervor; he claimed the virtue of vigilance in following Pure Boy Mur whose erratic behaviour had engaged his attention. In their outrage the Chilites paid no heed; one Pure Boy convenient to hand was better than another not demonstrably guilty. Geacles was treated to a thrashing, then forced to remove the hide and give the meditation chamber a ritual cleansing: a process occupying three nights and two days. Next Geacles went before the Development Committee, where he was asked a number of searching questions. He had now toiled three nights and two days without sleep; in a half-hysteria he babbled the first words which came into his head: an hysterical demonstration which impressed the committee favorably, rather than otherwise. Geacles was basically good substance, they decided; his astonishing act must be ascribed to an ecstatic predisposition. Geacles received a cursory reprimand and was ordered to restrain his volatility.

  During the examination Geacles identified Mur as the source of the mischief, to which information the commission presented faces of indifferent skepticism; nonetheless they took note of the name. Geacles sensed something of the committee’s mood and was heartened, though his skin crawled with detestation for Mur. Alternately giggling in jubilation and groaning in fury, he returned to the Pure Boy chambers, where the scandal had been discussed from every possible aspect. In silence the Pure Boys watched Geacles as he crossed the chamber. He went to his bay and lay himself upon the pallet, too tired to sleep, his mind crawling with malice. Through slitted eyes he watched Mur, wondering how he would take revenge. Some way, somehow, by one means or another … Geacles fermented with emotion. His hate became so great that he began to shudder. He gave a small animal moan and quickly turned his back, lest others should notice his precious hate and use it for derision. Then it would be soiled and spoiled … A peculiar condition overcame Geacles, wherein his body slept but his mind seemed to remain awake. Time foreshortened; about ten minutes passed, or so he estimated; he turned to look around the chamber, to find that the suns had wheeled far across the sky. The hour was well past noon; Geacles had missed his lunch: cause for new anguish! He noticed Mur sitting on a bench at the open end of the chamber. He held a copy of the Analytical Catechism, but his attention was fixed across the landscape. He seemed distrait. Geacles raised his head, wondering what went on in Mur’s mind. Why did his fingers twitch, why did he frown so intently? … Mur gave a peculiar jerk, as if at a message from his subconscious. He rose to his feet and as oblivious as a somnambulist departed the chamber.

  Geacles groaned in doubt and indecision. He still ached with fatigue. But Mur’s conduct was not that of a Pure Boy. He heaved himself from his couch and went to peer after Mur. Was he off to tend his silk? Conceivably. But again — Mur’s gait was not that of a truly consecrated Pure Boy. Geacles drew a deep breath. His curiosity had only just brought him to grief, in circumstances exactly similar … He dragged himself back to his bay, where he immersed himself in his own Analytical Catechism:

  Q:

  In how many guises may Galexis appear?

 
A:

  Galexis is as protean as the face of the ocean …

  A week passed. Geacles behaved with easy cordiality toward all; the Pure Boys treated him with cautious reserve. Mur paid him no heed whatever. But Geacles gave a great deal of quiet attention to Mur. And one day while Geacles sat in his bay memorizing Exclamations, Mur went to sit on the bench at the open end of the chamber. Geacles instantly became interested, and over the top of his book watched Mur’s every move … Mur seemed to be talking to himself. Hmf, grunted Geacles, he merely recited a litany or Exclamations … But why did his finger tap with so regular a beat on his knee? Peculiar. Geacles watched even more intently. Mur returned to his bay; Geacles instantly frowned down into his Exclamations. Shelving his Catechism, Mur went back to the front of the chamber. Here he paused a moment or two, looking out over the sweep of the landscape. After a single backward glance into the chamber, he set off along the hillside. Geacles instantly left his bay, and went to look after Mur, who marched purposefully along the path to the north. Toward his plot of fiber-trees, thought Geacles with a sniff. Mur, or rather Faman Bougozonie, had always been assiduous with his trees. Still: why the backward glance into the chamber? Geacles rubbed his pale cheeks. Interesting, interesting. To learn he must look, with his round yellow-brown eyes; to look, he must move himself within range of vision. After all, there was no reason why he should not tend his own silk; it had been sorely neglected over the last few weeks. Geacles disliked the routine of winding bobbins, weeding, propping branches, drawing down new strands; but now duty offered a pretext upon which he might follow Mur without fear of challenge.

  Geacles set off along one of the paths which curved around the parched hillside. He tried to contrive a sedate and purposeful gait and simultaneously maintain stealth: no mean feat; had Mur been other than lost in his brooding, Geacles would have been forced to relinquish one or the other of his attitudes.