George Alec Affinger - What Entropy Means to Me

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What Entropy Means to Me

by George Alec Effinger

For my parents, for enabling me to write unfettered by the

bonds of nonexistence.For Robin, Harlan, Kate and Damon, for the

same.And always, especially, for Dia.

PART ONE

'Neath His Bronzed Skin His Iron Muscles

Played

* * *

Chapter one

Prelude to ... Danger!

She was Our Mother, so she cried. She used to sit out there, under that

micha tree, all day as we worked cursing in her fields. She sat there during

the freezing nights, and we pretended that we could see her through the

windows in the house, by the light of the moons and the hard, fast stars.

She sat there before most of us were born; she sat there until she died.

And all that time she shed her tears. She was Our Mother, so she cried.

She cried often for our yard, and the chairs that had been put there. We

had many chairs on the scrubby lawn between the house and the chata

fields. Some of the other estates have iron and stone statues placed

around, but none of them have chairs. We have quite a few. Our Mother

taught us that she got the idea from reading one of the plays that Our

Father brought with him from Earth. We still have many of those books.

Sometimes we throw them into the River when it looks like it might flood.

But we still have most of them.

I've always liked the plays. I know the one Our Mother meant; I read it

years ago. It is by Ionesco. We have the plays of Ionesco, of De Ghelderode,

and of Büchner. I enjoy also the plays of Dürrenmatt and Jarry. Of the

classics I read Aeschylus and Aristophanes, Shakespeare and Jonson with

relish. Our Mother always said that I was presumptuous to display my

wide knowledge of the drama, but I do not think so. The Theater is life.

The chairs. Some are wooden, straight-backed chairs. These are gray or

olive-green, and their paint is peeling and falling on the grass. There are

black enameled iron chairs, and these are subject to rust where the paint

covering is damaged. There are a few cold, sweaty stone thrones. Our

Mother sat on one of these, with two fluted stone columns rising to her left

and right. Behind her a once-beautiful embroidered hanging flapped in

the winds, rain-spotted and covered with patches of fungus growth.

There are other sorts of chairs—hammocks hanging and swinging, their

canvas bodies bloated with spring rains—but I don't think that it is

necessary for me to describe them all. Perhaps you are able already to

picture our yard. It is only for background, that's all. If I tell you that there

are also skins stuffed with rags set out under the white sky, and that they

stay wet longest, and smell worst, how much have I added? You see, I must

now continue elsewhere.

Behind the house, on the other side from the chata bean fields, was the

River. It was the River of Life, which gave us all our lives and our deaths,

too. It sprang, we believe, from the endless tears of Our Mother. Now,

impossibly, she is gone, but the River remains. This is our chief defense

against those of our family who contend that there is no life after death.

Our Mother must still continue to weep in her eternal sorrow, somewhere.

The River was called the Allegheny by Our Father, who took the name

from another river on Earth, near his ancestral home. We call it the River

of Life, or, simply, the River. Many things could be pulled from the River

and dried, but most of us do not consider that to be moral. Wherever the

River wishes to carry these things (pieces of wood, broken-down

machinery, dead animals and people, boats, our books) is their proper

destination, and it would be profane to pull them out prematurely. Some

of us do not agree, arguing that it then should be equally impious to enter

the River unbidden, as we do for purposes of worship, cleanliness, and

sport.

My brother Dore was of the latter group. It is his mission that I am

describing, although I haven't really gotten into it yet. He did not go near

the River during our monthly devotions, but preferred to pray from the

small chapel in the house. He did not swim and dig in the River's bottom

as some of the rest of us enjoyed doing. He took nothing from the River,

and believed it sacrilegious to add to the burden of the strong current.

Nevertheless, it was he whom Our Mother sent. Perhaps if he had allowed

himself to sail the River in one of our flat-bottomed boats he would have

returned. Then this story would have been told by him, and the details

that I am forced to make up out of thin air would have the bite of

authenticity.

Our Mother sent Dore, and he never returned. He was the first of our

second generation to depart, and Our already-mourning Mother died in

her guilt and loss.

Dore was the eldest. He was thoughtful; that is why I argued against his

being sent. The mission was meant for one of the more impetuous, less

rational young men. Dore would never fight without exploring all the

ramifications of everything involved. He might have met his death while

temporizing with a grass dragon. If that fits later on, perhaps that will be

how I will tell it.

My brother Dore was very young when Our Parents came to Home

from their home, Earth. He was the firstborn, and the only born, at that

time. He was still young and alone when Our Father joined the River. (All

the rest of us are the offspring of Our Mother and her most sacred tears.

This we are taught.) My brother wore the crown that he made for himself

when he was first a man, when he coupled with Melithiel, the princess

from down the road. He wore a green cloak, fearing in his peculiar

devoutness to wear the blue-green of the River. Rather he celebrated the

forests, and their masculine and less holy aspects. On special occasions he

took for his own a carved wooden throne which was set up on a stone dais

(he did not take the vacated throne of Our Father); he sat only for short

periods of time, a staff cut from the forest in his hand. He did not like to

be conspicuous but, in his position, it was difficult for him not to be so.

Dore was the friend of the forest. He was well-liked by lizards.

Sometimes in the woods at night, when he built his large fires and slept,

he took off his boots; in the morning there would be huge slugs leaving

their silvery trails like webwork in them. Better he should have laughed

with fish in the River.

The idea of the mission was not originally conceived by Our Mother,

although it is thought by some of us that she gave the inspiration

subliminally to our brother Tere. She used to do that quite a bit. The

mission was closely related to the reason that Our Parents left their

beautiful red and gray Earth.

Our Parents were nearly superhuman in their powers and in their

inestimable resources. Why then did they leave their natural home for the

unknown territories off-planet? Was it because their brothers on Earth

were jealous and afraid of their control of supernatural forces beyond

comprehension? Was it because the Earth people hated Our Parents for

their all-encompassing knowledge, their perfect and blessed relationship

to all living things, their total and consistent morality? No. They hounded

Our Father and Our Mother from their midst because of Our Parents’

overwhelming debts.

One day Tere came in from the fields. He works very little in the fields,

contenting himself instead to measure the distance between the chata

stalks with his eyes and remark on the good fortune that prevented us

from planting them too closely together. We laughed behind his wide

back, because we knew that he was only shirking. We have always hated

the work in the chata bean fields, but we did not hate Tere for making our

tasks harder. We do not like him as much as we like others of us, but his

laziness is only part of the reason.

Tere thought of the mission, so I will describe him. He was

second-eldest, and there is a theory current among a large part of us that

the mission was intended as a way to become eldest. He is eldest now, so

that theory cannot be totally discounted; but it is uncharitable.

Where Dore was slim and brown, Tere is plump and dappled pink. He

wears silly clothes, trying to appear regal. He has made for himself a

crown; it is much more ostentatious than Dore's, floppy silk bunches

dotted with colored rock and shell, with trailers of red and blue ribbons.

He wears a cloak of heavy blue-green material caught at the neck with a

plastic brooch in the shape of a fish. Tere is the worrier of fishes, he is not

their friend. As Dore was home in the forest, Tere spends his time in the

pools and watercourses of our land. But he is not welcome there: He just

spends a lot of time. He has built a throne. This in itself is almost

inexcusable audacity, for it is the first chair that has been moved into our

yard since the original lot. It is a strange throne, made of a slick gray

substance that we have been unable to identify. He wears slippers of

green, shiny with simulated scales so that we will recognize his alliance

with the fish. We do not

Tere came in from the fields on this day. He went past Our Mother, as

you must do on the way from the bean fields to the house. He stopped to

pray at her feet, and he prayed that her grief might lessen. Her pain was

frightening in its intensity. At night we would look out from the windows

of the house and watch her. Our Father had built her throne so that she

was shaded from the sun by the great tree, and at night the constellation

of the Wheel of the Sleeper revolved like a milky halo above her. We could

not see her then, but the flashes of light, the shooting stars in the sky fell

thickly, like the endless stream of her tears. Though she was obscured by

the darkness, her sadness was more palpable. We saw her weeping in the

sky and we heard her moans in the groaning of the River. When we slept,

we felt her unendurable torment in our dreams, for then our minds were

opened completely. We woke several times each night, holding our

foreheads and screaming. Now we rest easier, but the moons are still her

two red and pleading eyes. It is more than one of us who says that the old

days were lighter to bear.

Tere had his inspiration. Someone must make a sacrifice. Would it be

Tere? No, we didn't think so. Tere explained his idea to Our Mother: a

mission to the end of the River. A mission to the end of existence, to the

end of time, to the end of everything that there could be. And, therefore, it

could only be entrusted to the leader of us all. Only Dore was capable of

making such a sacrifice; perhaps, though, perhaps he might return. Then

he would bring back the news that would stop the tears of Our Mother:

words from beyond the bar, from Our Father in the belly of the River.

Dore was not a River person, but he accepted the monstrous task

without complaint. Our Mother said little, Dore said less. Tere explained it

to us all. Meanwhile Dore stood in the house by the great window that

overlooked the River. He watched the green water rushing and he smiled.

His face was rested and peaceful, his features serene and beautiful. This

was to be his sacrifice and he, at least, knew how it was to be made.

Before he left on his journey Dore went down the road to the house of

the Fourth family. He went to visit the eldest daughter, Melithiel, who was

by that family's bylaws a princess of the blood. She slept with him before

he left, and he touched her small, perfect breasts. He knew her three times

that evening, but he had known better. In the morning the king of the

Fourth family showed him what Dore would miss by going on the quest

and probably being killed. He showed Dore the joys of marriage and the

joys of family, and he taught him briefly the joys that only the generator of

a powerful clan might know. He took Dore out to a hill a few hundred

yards from the Fourth house. The hill overlooked the house itself and,

beyond, the River. At the bottom of the hill three children played with a

doglike animal. After a short while the king of the Fourth family's wife

came out from the house. She saw her husband and ran up the hill to his

arms. They embraced, and Dore smiled his small, knowing smile.

Dore went on his journey. I believe that I was the last to see him. It was

my job, as the tenth-oldest male, to stand on the hill in our yard that

overlooked the River and hold the standard of our family. I had to stand

there one day out of each eight, and I was there as Dore took his leave of

the house of the Fourth family. I thought I could make him out, seeing, I

think, his familiar green cloak—the green of the forest, not the flood green

of Tere—and the light glinting from his lovely crown. I liked to sing to

myself, and as I saw Dore start on his way I sang a song to him, one of his

all-time favorites. I dedicated that song to him, and now I dedicate the

memory of that song to his memory. At that time I wore a simple cloth

cap with a jaunty red feather. My cloak was yellow, the color of various

flowers that I find pleasing. I am a meadowman, myself.

As Dore passed out of sight on the forest trail, scorning the broader

road that paralleled the River, a chill wind pushed out of the valley and up

my hill. The white sky darkened, and in a short while rain fell, several full

hours before the regular evening raintime. I did not know then whether

the unusual conditions were an omen or the result of Our Mother's

increased anguish. We argue still about this very thing. It has not been

resolved to our satisfaction.

When I heard that wind, I knew. The pennon snapped on its staff, and

the sound frightened me. The crest of our family, embroidered in white

and blue and green on the flag, seemed to be crying out for Dore to return.

I knew then that I would never see him again. At sunset I left my post, and

I carried the staff back to the outbuilding where it is kept. After I had put

it back on its shelf I bowed my head and said the short prayer, adding a

few words for Dore's sake. Then I walked around the house to the throne of

Our Mother. Nearly all of us were gathered there, sitting on the prickly

grass at her feet. I knelt and addressed my prayer of greeting to her. She

touched me on the shoulder, one of the few times that she had ever

touched me since early childhood. I can remember that I began to cry

when I felt her rough fingers.

Our Mother spoke to us. She told us again the story of how she met Our

Father in the Earth city of Pittsburgh, and of their flight from the debtors’

prison there. She told us of the kindly merchant who sponsored their

escape to Home, and how she had taken that merchant to bed, fondling

him in gratitude and feeling his throbbing manhood within her. She

retold the history of the founding of our First family on Home, and the

coming of the other and lesser families. Then she addressed herself to the

task of Dore, and to his better qualities, so that we should always

remember him as a thrifty and worthwhile addition to any family. She

told us of his love of the forested lands and his legendary ability to

understand the speech of his floral friends, although we knew all this

already; she told us of his strong arms. At last she stopped, her holy tears

streaming at their constant rate, and we stood before her in silent

worship, our arms outstretched. But, of course, she could not leave her

throne. Her time had not yet come.

But then we were all made aware that the time was nearer than we had

dreamed, and that our lives were to be altered beyond our simple-minded

comprehension. It remains to be seen whether or not the changes are of a

positive nature. Some of us believe that they are, and some of us disagree.

Dore set out practically unarmed against the dangers of Home's

unexplored wildlands. Tere told us about the quasi-religious nature of the

quest. He explained that the great and selfless sacrifice of Dore would

result in our salvation, at least in the corporal sense; our intentions would

be revealed to the River in all their purity, and the innocent body of our

brother Dore would serve as substitute for five or six whole shelves of

books. Therefore, he must face the Nature of our world

(Nature that owes its existence, as do we, to the River) with only the

equipment necessary to see him through to the end of his journey. The

trip back would be entirely a matter of fortune.

“He will carry, as symbol of our parting with the insane aggressive

disposition of the people of Earth, he will carry an empty scabbard. What

courage he will require! But our brother Dore is equal to the calling. He is

the most qualified among us, and he is, as eldest male, the only one of us

whose sacrifice could have any meaning.” So Tere put it to us, pausing

only now and again to touch his breast and sigh.

I asked Dore about this before he left. He was sitting on his throne,

resting his chin on a bridge of his hands. When I spoke he looked up,

startled. He seemed embarrassed at being found on his throne again.

“Are you really going out there without even your sword?” I asked.

“No, my brother, I don't think so. If Tere wants someone to go without a

sword, let it be he. I'm the one who's going, and I'm taking Battlefriend

with me. And I'll take everything else that I can sneak out of the house.”

He smiled at me, and I saw the pain hidden behind the smile. He took

his crown from his head and studied it for a few seconds; he smiled again,

perhaps thinking of the days when he first made it, and first made the

princess of the Fourth family. He looked up and saw me. For some reason

he sighed; he made a gesture which, I am not certain, but it seemed as

though he were offering the crown to me. I cannot interpret this; in any

event, he shook his head sadly and put the crown back on.

While I sat at his feet our younger sister Laliche ran to him and jumped

into his lap. The scene was so purely touching that I was surprised when

Dore failed to laugh in his usual delighted way. Laliche noticed it too. She

looked up at his face, her own nose wrinkled among the freckles.

“Dore,” she said, “why don't you put a pine cone on your stick that you

walk with?”

Laliche was five years old and enjoyed Dore's special favor. But that day

his mind was on his journey. He did not answer her.

“Why would he want a pine cone on his staff?” I asked.

“Because Dionysus did,” she said. She jumped to the ground again and

ran away, laughing and singing and cursing.

“Yes,” I said somberly, “you're much more Orphic than anything else.”

“It does not matter, Seyt. I have been waiting for a sign. I knew that if I

waited here long enough my bird, that tarishawk that rests here each day,

I knew that he would come. Our Mother said that if he flew from the right,

then I would have good fortune. If he came from the left, my journey

would be disastrous for me, and it would bear no positive fruits for you.”

“And the hawk? Which way did it come? Did it come from the left?”

Dore smiled once more; his smile was always the most cheerless aspect

of him. “The hawk has not come at all,” he said. He fell silent, resting his

head in his hands. I nodded, though he could not see me; I got to my feet

and walked to the house as quietly as I could.

Dore's journey would not become dangerous for two or three days. We

all knew that he could stay with the lower families for the first few nights.

We had no worries for him until he left the small growth of humanity

behind and entered into the healthy, wild skin of the planet that is our

Home.

We were wrong. Our Mother told us that he had encountered treachery

on his second night away.

Beyond the keep of the Fourth family the estates rapidly fell off in

quality. When Dore bid farewell to that king and court he followed the

dusty trace leading to his beloved forest. As the sun climbed behind the

gritty white clouds he walked to his doom, whistling. In his place I would

have sung, and most of the girls would have prayed. But, as Our Mother

said on many occasions, it takes all sorts of people to make a world, and

that is what made our family great.

The road was unpaved (I have never in my life seen real pavement),

rutted deep by the wooden carts of the lower families whose castles and

cabins stood to the sides. Roads have played an important role, not only in

the entire and majestic history of the human race, but also in the endless

procession of literature. Consider the part of the road in Waiting for

Godot or in the tales of Chaucer. If the road in this history has a lesser

importance, it is only because our road is the shorter.

About suppertime Dore stopped his march under a tall, slender pine

tree. He opened his wallet and took out the bread and cheese that he had

insisted on bringing. Our sister Vaelluin, who had done kitchen duty on

the day of Dore's departure, had prepared a compact kit of dried rations

in boilable plastic bags, but Dore said that hard bread and stiff cheddar

were more in keeping with his quest. It was a poor meal, but Dore had

never been used to luxury. He ate quickly, finishing only part of the day's

share and saving the remainder for an extra-large breakfast. He packed

his wallet and continued his walking, planning to find a place to spend the

night in the hour or so before the evening rains.

About two miles farther down the road he arrived at the elaborate

mailbox of the Thirtyfourth family. It was a salute to bad taste, combining

Doric columns with bastardized Corinthian ornament, a Greco-Roman

frieze and imitation Khmer temple statuary. Art Nouveau lettering, and

obscenely ornate French Empire neoclassicism on top of Rococo

scrollwork. In all, with portico, porch, piazza, and stoa, it stood over

eighteen feet tall.

Dore followed the pebble drive up to the front of the building. The path

split and went on in opposite directions, making right angles around a

rectangular lawn. In the middle of the grass was a statue; Dore knew that

it was actually a fountain, but it was turned off during the day. It rather

graphically depicted the rape of Proserpina: when it was activated after

the raintime, colored lights played on the spray that emanated from an

indelicately situated marble orifice.

A heavy iron door was set into the front of the mailbox. The door was

decorated with heads of Cerberus and bulls from the Ishtar Gate of

Babylon. Across two panels in the middle was a faded reproduction of The

Last Supper by Dali. A little balcony stood over the doorway, shading it.

At the foot of one of its supporting columns was a tall urn filled with white

sand and a few crushed cigarette butts. At the base of the other was a

cast-iron Negro coachboy, holding a lantern and grinning servilely. On the

lantern, as in about a dozen other places, was written Mr. & Mrs. Walter

G. Thirtyfour. Dore lifted the heavy brass doorknocker and pounded it in

place.

The knock was answered immediately by a dirty-faced young woman.

Her clothes were soiled and threadbare, and her nose was weeping for

attention. “Mom says to tell you we don't want any, thank you,” she said.

Dore loved her for that. He never needed more of a reason. “No,” he

said, chuckling, “I'm not selling anything. This is a real crown. I am Dore

First. I would like to beg your hospitality.”

The girl stared in amazement. It is likely that she had never seen any of

the First family before. Then she looked at his rich clothing, and at the

jeweled scabbard of Battlefriend. “How long,” she said, stammering, “how

long do you plan to be staying on with us?”

“Just this one night, I think.”

“Yes, sir. Fine. Please, sir, if you will sign this book. Do you have any

luggage? I can get one of the boys to carry it up to the house. We hope you

enjoy your stay with us, and if there's anything you need, anything, don't

hesitate.”

“Thank you,” said Dore, “it'll be all right if you just show me the way to

the house.”

The young woman led Dore back through the trees to the house. The

home of the Thirtyfourth family was little, if any, larger than their

mailbox. In fact, it later developed that the mailbox, being otherwise

without function on our Post Officeless world, served as guest house and

part-time brothel. Dore, as an upper-class visitor, would be quartered in

the main house itself. But courtesy demanded that he at least visit the

mailbox. He hoped that his first fleeting call would suffice.

His arrival put the household in a state of confusion. The head of the

Thirtyfourth family (who insisted on being called Walt) ordered a

sumptuous feast. This consisted of four courses of hard, dark bread and

fine domestic cheese. Dore was unimpressed, of course, but did his best to

show his appreciation to his poorer cousins. He explained about his quest,

to the amazement of everyone, and begged to be excused so that he might

get a good night's sleep. He planned to be on the road again before dawn.

George Alec Affinger - What Entropy Means to Me

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