Robert Silverberg - New Springtime 01 - At Winter's End

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"Tingling, richly detailed and fascinating ... a long, absorbing, far-future saga with substantial

characters and a plot that adds up. Silverberg's best full-length outing for many a long year."

—Kirkus Reviews

* * * *

"An intriguing exercise in world-building ... [on] a temporal scale to beggar most imaginations."

—Analog

* * * *

"Strong realism ... and a fine sense of detail."

—Locus

* * * *

"A solid, dramatic novel ... expands on the mixed terrors and pleasures of freedom."

—Publishers Weekly

* * * *

"Befits his stature as one of the genre's grandmasters ... his multilayered approach, combining

adept action sequences with insightful philosophical examinations of cultural chaos, creates a

book full of diverse delights."

—Austin American-Statesman

* * * *

"An endearing mix of adventure quest and allegory about the dawn of man ... complex characters

and interesting storytelling."

—Dow Jones

* * * *

"Written in precise, yet effortless prose, Silverberg's imagery is sharp and he evokes a sense of

wonder."

—Rave Reviews

* * * *

"Silverberg is our best."

—Fantasy & Science Fiction

ForTERRY CARR

Who was here for the beginning of this one, though not the end

An axe-age, a sword-age,

shields shall be sundered;

A wind-age, a wolf-age,

ere the world falls.

The sun turns black,

Earth sinks in the sea,

The hot stars down

from heaven are whirled;

Fierce grows the steam

and the life-feeding flame

Till fire leaps high

about heaven itself.

—Elder Edda

Everyone on Earth for a million years or more had known that the death-stars were coming, that

the Great World was doomed. One could not deny that; one could not hide from that. They had

come before and surely they would come again, for their time was immutable, every twenty-six

million years, and their time had come ‘round once more. One by one they would crash down

terribly from the skies, falling without mercy for thousands or even hundreds of thousands of

years, bringing fire, darkness, dust, smoke, cold, and death: an endless winter of sorrows. Each of

the peoples of Earth addressed its fate in its own fashion, for genetics is destiny—even, in a

strange way, for life-forms that have no genes. The vegetals and the sapphire-eyes people knew

that they would not survive, and they made their preparations accordingly. The mechanicals knew

that they could survive if they cared to, but they did not care to. The sea-lords understood that

their day was done and they accepted that. The hjjk-folk, who never yielded any advantage

willingly, expected to come through the cataclysm unharmed, and set about making certain of

that.

And the humans—the humans—

1

The Hymn of the New Springtime

It was a day like no day that had ever been in all the memory of the People. Sometimes half a year or

more might go by in the cocoon where the first members of Koshmar's little band had taken refuge

against the Long Winter seven hundred centuries ago, and there would be not one single event worthy of

entering in the chronicles. But that morning there were three extraordinary happenings within the span of

an hour, and after that hour life would never again be the same for Koshmar and her tribe.

First came the discovery that a ponderous phalanx of ice-eaters was approaching the cocoon from

below, out of the icy depths of the world.

It was Thaggoran the chronicler who came upon them. He was the tribe's old man: it was his title as well

as his condition. He had lived far longer than any of the others. As keeper of the chronicles it was his

privilege to live until he died. Thaggoran's back was bowed, his chest was sunken and hollow, his eyes

were forever reddened at the rims and brimming with fluid, his fur was white and grizzled with age. Yet

there was vigor in him and much force. Thaggoran lived daily in contact with the epochs gone by, and it

was that, he believed, which sustained and preserved him: that knowledge of the past cycles of the world,

that connection with the greatness that had flourished in the bygone days of warmth.

For weeks Thaggoran had been wandering in the ancient passageways below the tribal cocoon.

Shinestones were what he sought, precious gems of high splendor, useful in the craft of divination. The

subterranean passageways in which he prowled had been carved by his remote ancestors, burrowing this

way and that through the living rock with infinitely patient labor, when they first had come here to hide

from the exploding stars and black rains that destroyed the Great World. No one in the past ten thousand

years had found a shinestone in them. But Thaggoran had dreamed three times this year that he would

add a new one to the tribe's little store of them. He knew and valued the power of dreams. And so he

went prowling in the depths almost every day.

He moved now through the deepest and coldest tunnel of all, the one called Mother of Frost. As he

crept cautiously on hands and knees in the darkness, searching with his second sight for the shinestones

that he hoped were embedded in the walls of the passageway somewhere close ahead, he felt a sudden

strange tingling and trembling, a feathery twitching and throbbing. The sensation ran through the entire

length of his sensing-organ, from the place at the base of his spine where it sprouted from his body all the

way out to its tip. It was the sensation that came from living creatures very near at hand.

Swept by alarm, he halted at once and held himself utterly still.

Yes. He felt a clear emanation of life nearby: something huge turning and turning below him, like a thick

sluggish auger drilling through stone. Something alive, here in these cold lightless depths, roaming the

mountain's bleak dark heart.

“Yissou!” he muttered, and made the sign of the Protector. “Emakkis!” he whispered, and made the sign

of the Provider. “Dawinno! Friit!”

In awe and fear Thaggoran put his cheek to the tunnel's rough stone floor. He pressed the pads of his

fingers against the chilly rock. He aimed his second sight outward and downward. He swept his

sensing-organ from side to side in a wide arc.

Stronger sensations, undeniable and incontrovertible, came flooding in. He shivered. Nervously he

fingered the ancient amulet dangling on a cord about his throat.

A living thing, yes. Dull-witted, practically mindless, but definitely alive, throbbing with hot intense vitality.

And not at all far away. It was separated from him, Thaggoran perceived, by nothing more than a layer of

rock a single arm's-length wide. Gradually its image took form for him: an immense limbless thick-bodied

creature standing on its tail within a vertical tunnel scarcely broader than itself. Great black bristles thicker

than a man's arm ran the length of its meaty body, and deep red craters in its pale flesh radiated powerful

blasts of nauseating stench. It was moving up through the mountain with inexorable determination, cutting

a path for itself with its broad stubby boulderlike teeth: gnawing on rock, digesting it, excreting it as moist

sand at the far end of a massive fleshy body thirty man-lengths long.

Nor was it the only one of its kind making the ascent. From the right and the left now Thaggoran pulled

in other heavy pulsing emanations. There were three of the great beasts, five, maybe a dozen of them.

Each was confined in its own narrow tunnel, each embarked upon an unhurried journey upward.

Ice-eaters, Thaggoran thought. Yissou! Was it possible?

Shaken, astounded, he crouched motionless, listening to the pounding of the huge animals’ souls.

Yes, he was certain of it now: surely these were ice-eaters moving about. He had never seen one—no

one alive had ever seen an ice-eater—but he carried a clear image of them in his mind. The oldest pages

of the tribal chronicles told of them: vast creatures that the gods had called into being in the first days of

the Long Winter, when the less hardy denizens of the Great World were perishing of the darkness and

the cold. The ice-eaters made their homes in the black deep places of the earth, and needed neither air

nor light nor warmth. Indeed they shunned such things as if they were poisons. And the prophets had said

that a time would come at winter's end when the ice-eaters would begin to rise toward the surface, until

at last they emerged into the bright light of day to meet their doom.

Now, it seemed, the ice-eaters had commenced their climb. Was the endless winter at last reaching its

end, then?

Perhaps these ice-eaters merely were confused. The chronicles testified that there had been plenty of

false omens before this. Thaggoran knew the texts well: the Book of the Unhappy Dawn, the Book of the

Cold Awakening, the Book of the Wrongful Glow.

But it made little difference whether this was the true omen of spring or merely another in the long skein

of tantalizing disappointments. One thing was sure: the People would have to abandon their cocoon and

go forth into the strangeness and mystery of the open world.

For the fullness of the catastrophe was at once apparent to Thaggoran. His years of roving these dark

abandoned passageways had inscribed an indelible map of their intricate patterns in lines of brilliant

scarlet on his mind. The upward route of these vast indifferent monsters drilling slowly through earth and

rock would in time carry them crashing through the heart of the dwelling-chamber where the People had

lived so many thousands of years. There could be no doubt of that. The worms would be coming up right

below the place of the altarstone. And the tribe was no more capable of halting them in their blind ascent

than it would be of trapping an onrushing death-star in a net of woven grass.

Far above the cavern where Thaggoran knelt eavesdropping on the ice-eaters, Torlyri the

offering-woman, who was the twining-partner of Koshmar the chieftain, was at that moment nearing the

exit hatch of the cocoon. It was the moment of sunrise, when Torlyri went forth to make the daily offering

to the Five Heavenly Ones.

Tall, gentle Torlyri was renowned for her great beauty and sweetness of soul. Her fur was a lustrous

black, banded with two astonishing bright spirals of white that ran the whole length of her body. Powerful

muscles rippled beneath her skin. Her eyes were soft and dark, her smile was warm and easy. Everyone

in the tribe loved Torlyri. From childhood on she had been marked for distinction: a true leader, one to

whom others might turn at any time for counsel and support. But for the mildness of her spirit, she might

well have become chieftain herself, and not Koshmar; but beauty and strength alone are insufficient. A

chieftain must not be mild.

So it was to Koshmar and not Torlyri that they had come, on that day, nine years earlier, when the old

chieftain Thekmur had reached the limit-age. “This is my death-day,” sinewy little Thekmur had

announced to Koshmar. “And so this is your crowning-day,” said Thaggoran. Thus Koshmar was made

chieftain, as it had been agreed five years before that. For Torlyri a different destiny had been decreed.

When, not long afterward, it was the time of Gonnari the offering-woman to pass through the hatch as

Thekmur had, Thaggoran and Koshmar came to Torlyri to place the offering-bowl in her hands. Then

Koshmar and Torlyri embraced, with warm tears in their eyes, and went before the tribe to accept the

election; and a little later that day they celebrated their double accession more privately, with laughter and

love, in one of the twining-chambers.

“Now it is our time to rule,” Koshmar told her that day. “Yes,” Torlyri said. “At last, our time is here.”

But she knew the truth, which was that now it was Koshmar's time to rule, and Torlyri's time to serve.

Yet were they not both servants of the People, chieftain as well as offering-woman?

Each morning for the past nine years Torlyri had made the same journey, when the silent signal came

through the eye of the hatch to tell her that the sun had entered the sky: out of the cocoon by the

sky-side, up and up through the interior of the cliff along the winding maze of steep narrow corridors that

led toward the crest, and at last to the flat area at the top, the Place of Going Out, where she would

perform the rite that was her most important responsibility to the People.

There, each morning, Torlyri unfastened the exit hatch and stepped across the threshold, cautiously

passing a little way into the outer world. Most members of the tribe crossed that threshold only three

times in their lives: on their naming-day, their twining-day, and their death-day. The chieftain saw the

outer world a fourth time, on her crowning-day. But Torlyri had the privilege and the burden of entering

the outer world each morning of her life. Even she was permitted to go only as far as the offering-stone of

pink granite flecked with sparkling flakes of fire, six paces beyond the gate. Upon that holy stone she

would place her offering-bowl, containing some little things of the inner world, a few glowberries or some

yellow strands of wall-thatching or a bit of charred meat; and then she would empty yesterday's bowl of

its offerings and gather something of the outer world to take within, a handful of earth, a scattering of

pebbles, half a dozen blades of redgrass. That daily interchange was essential to the well-being of the

tribe. What it said to the gods each day was:We have not forgotten that we are of the world and we

are in the world, even though we must live apart from it at this time. Someday we will come forth

again and dwell upon the world that you have made for us, and this is the token of our pledge.

Arriving now at the Place of Going Out, Torlyri set down her offering-bowl and gripped the handwheel

that opened the hatch. It was no trifling thing to turn that great shining wheel, but it moved easily under

her hands. Torlyri was proud of her strength. Neither Koshmar nor any man of the tribe, not even mighty

Harruel, the biggest and strongest of the warriors, could equal her at arm-standing, at kick-wrestling, at

cavern-soaring.

The gate opened. Torlyri stepped through. The keen, sharp air of morning stung her nostrils.

The sun was just coming up. Its chilly red glow filled the eastern sky, and the swirling dust motes that

danced on the frosty air seemed to flare and blaze with an inner flame. Beyond the ledge on which she

stood, Torlyri saw the broad, swift river far below, gleaming with the same crimson stain of morning light.

Once that great river had been known as the Hallimalla by those who lived along its banks, and before

that it had been called the Sipsimutta, and at an even earlier time its name was the Mississippi. Torlyri

knew nothing of any of that. To her, the river was simply the river. All those other names were forgotten

now, and had been for hundreds of thousands of years. There had been hard times upon the earth since

the coming of the Long Winter. The Great World itself was lost; why then should its names have

survived? A few had, but only a few. The river was nameless now.

The cocoon in which the sixty members of Koshmar's tribe had spent all their lives—and where their

ancestors had huddled since time out of mind, waiting out the unending darkness and chill that the falling

death-stars had brought—was a snug cozy burrow hollowed out of the side of a lofty bluff rising high

above that mighty river. At first, so the chronicles declared, those people who had survived the early

days of black rains and frightful cold had been content to live in mere caves, eating roots and nuts and

catching such meat-creatures as they could. Then the winter had deepened and the plants and wild

animals vanished from the world. Had human ingenuity ever faced a greater challenge? But the cocoon

was the answer: the self-sufficient buried enclosure, dug into hillsides and cliffs well above any likely snow

line. Small groups of people, their numbers strictly controlled by breeding regulations, occupied the

cocoon's insulated chambers. Clusters of luminescent glow-berries afforded light; intricate ventilation

shafts provided fresh air; water was pumped up from underground streams. Crops and livestock, having

been elegantly adapted to life under artificial illumination by means of magical skills now forgotten, were

raised in surrounding chambers. The cocoons were little island-worlds entirely complete in themselves,

each as isolated as though it were bound on a solitary voyage across the deep night of space. And in

them the survivors of the world's great calamity waited out the time, by centuries and tens of centuries,

until the day when the gods would grow weary of hurling death-stars from the sky.

Torlyri went to the offering-stone, set down her bowl, looked in each of the Five Sacred Directions,

spoke in turn the Five Names.

“Yissou,” she said. “Protector.

“Emakkis. Provider.

“Friit. Healer.

“Dawinno. Destroyer.

“Mueri. Consoler.”

Her voice chimed and echoed in the stillness. As she picked up yesterday's bowl to empty it, she looked

past the rim of the ledge and downward toward the river. Along that bare steep slope, where only

gnarled and twisted little woody shrubs could grow, brittle whitened bones lay scattered and tumbled

everywhere like twigs idly strewn. The bones of Gonnari were there, and of Thekmur, and of Thrask,

who had been chronicler before Thaggoran. Torlyri's mother's bones lay in those scattered drifts, and her

father's, and those of their fathers and mothers. All those who had ever left the hatch had perished here,

on this plunging hillside, struck down by the angry kiss of the winter air.

Torlyri wondered how long they lived, those who came forth from the cocoon when their appointed

death-day at last arrived. An hour? A day? How far were they able to roam before they were felled?

Most, Torlyri expected, simply sat and waited for the end to come to them. But had any of them,

overtaken by desperate curiosity in the last hours of their lives, tried to strike out into the world beyond

the ledge? To the river, say? Had anyone actually lasted long enough to make it down to the river's edge?

She wondered what it might be like to clamber down the side of the cliff and touch the tips of her fingers

to that mysterious potent current.

It would burn like fire, Torlyri thought. But it would be cool fire, a purifying fire. She imagined herself

wading out into the dark river, knee-deep, thigh-deep, belly-deep, feeling the cold blaze of the water

swirling up over her loins and her sensing-organ. She saw herself then setting out through the turbulent

flow, toward the other bank that was so far away she could barely make it out—walking through the

water, or perhaps atop it as legend said the water-strider folk did, walking on and on toward the sunrise

land, never once to see the cocoon again—

Torlyri smiled. What foolishness it was to indulge in these fantasies!

And what treason to the tribe it would be, if the offering-woman herself were to take advantage of her

hatch-freedom and desert the cocoon! But she felt a strange pleasure in pretending that she might

someday do such a thing. One could at least dream of it. Almost everyone, Torlyri suspected, now and

then looked with longing toward the outer world and had a moment's dream of escaping into it, though

surely few would admit to that. She had heard that there were those over the centuries who, growing

weary of cocoon life, actually had slipped through the hatch and down to the river and into the wild lands

beyond—not expelled from the cocoon as one was on one's death-day, but voluntary sojourners, setting

forth into that frigid unknowability of their own will simply to discover what it was like. Had anyone in

truth ever chosen such a desperate course? So it was said; but if it had happened, it had not been in the

lifetime of anyone now living. Of course those who might have gone forth in that way could never have

returned to tell the tale; they would have died almost at once in that harsh world out there. To go outside

was madness, she thought. But a tempting madness.

Torlyri knelt to collect what she needed for the inward offering.

Then out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement. She whirled, startled, turning back

toward the hatch just in time to see the small slight figure of a boy dart through it and race across the

ledge to the rim.

Torlyri reacted without thinking. The boy had already begun scrambling over the side of the ledge; but

she pivoted, moved to her left, grabbed at him fiercely, managed to catch him by one heel before he

disappeared. He yowled and kicked, but she held him fast, hauling him up, throwing him down onto the

ledge beside her.

His eyes were wide with fright, but there was boldness and bright audacity in them too. He was looking

past her, trying to get a glimpse of the hills and the river. Torlyri stood poised over him, half expecting him

to make another desperate lunge around her.

“Hresh,” she said. “Of course. Hresh. Who else but you would try something like this?”

He was eight, Minbain's boy, wild and headstrong all his life. Hresh-full-of-questions, they called him,

bubbling as he was with unlawful curiosity. He was small, slender, almost frail, a wriggling little rope of a

boy, with a ghostly face, triangular and sharply tapering from a wide brow, and huge dark eyes

mysteriously flecked with scarlet specks. Everyone said of him that he had been born for trouble. But this

was no trifling scrape he had gotten himself into now.

Torlyri shook her head sadly. “Have you gone crazy? What did you think you were doing?”

Softly he said, “I only wanted to see what's out here, Torlyri! The sky. The river. Everything.”

“You would have seen all that on your naming-day.”

He shrugged. “But that's a whole year away! I couldn't wait that long.”

“The law is the law, Hresh. We all obey, for the good of all. Are you above the law?”

Sullenly he said, “I only wanted to see. Just for a single day, Torlyri!”

“Do you know what happens to those who break the law?”

Frowning, Hresh said, “Not really. But it's something bad, isn't it? What will you do to me?”

“Me? Nothing. It's up to Koshmar.”

“Then what willshe do to me?”

“Anything. I don't know. People have been put to death for doing what you tried to do.”

"Death?"

“Expelled from the cocoon. That's certain death. No human could last out there alone for very long.

Look there, boy.”

She pointed down the slope, at the field of bleached bones.

“What are those?” Hresh asked at once.

Torlyri touched his thin arm, pressing against the bone within. “Skeletons. There's one inside you. You'll

leave your bones on that hill if you go outside. Everyone does.”

“Everyone who's ever gone outside?”

“They all lie right there, Hresh. Like pieces of old wood tossed about by the winter storms.”

He trembled. “There aren't enough of them,” he said with sudden defiance. “All those years and years

and years of death-days—the whole hill ought to be covered with bones, deeper than I am high.”

Despite herself Torlyri felt a grin coming on, and looked away a moment. There was no one else like this

child, was there? “The bones don't last, Hresh. Fifty, a hundred years, perhaps, and then they turn to

dust. Those you see are just the ones who have been cast out most recently.”

Hresh considered that a moment.

In a hushed voice he said, “Would they do that tome ?”

“Everything is in Koshmar's hands.”

There was a sudden flash of panic in the boy's strange eyes. “But you won't tell her, will you? Will you,

Torlyri?” His expression grew guileful. “You don't have to say anything, do you? You almost didn't notice

me, after all. Another moment and I'd have been past you and over the edge, and I would have just

stayed out till tomorrow morning, and nobody would have been the wiser. I mean, it isn't as though Ihurt

anybody. I only wanted to see the river.”

She sighed. His frightened, beseeching look was hard to resist. And, truly, what harm had he done? He

hadn't managed to get more than ten paces outside. She could understand his yearning to discover what

lay beyond the walls of the cocoon: that boiling curiosity, that horde of unanswered questions that must

rage in him all the time. She had felt something of that herself, though her spirit, she knew, had little of the

fire that must possess this troubled boy. But the law was the law, and he had broken it. She could ignore

that only at the peril of her own soul.

“Please, Torlyri, please—”

She shook her head. Without taking her eyes from the boy, she scooped together what she needed for

the inward offering. She glanced once more in each of the Five Sacred Directions. She spoke the Five

Names. Then she turned to the boy and indicated with a brusque gesture that he was to precede her

through the hatch. He looked terrified. Gently Torlyri said, “I have no choice, Hresh. I have to take you

to Koshmar.”

Long ago, someone had mounted a narrow strip of glossy black stone at eye level along the central

chamber's rear wall. No one knew why it had been put there originally, but over the years it had come to

be sacred to the memory of the tribe's departed chieftains. Koshmar made a point of brushing her

fingertips across it and quickly whispering the names of the six who had ruled most recently before her,

whenever she felt apprehensive over the future of the People. It was her quick way of invoking the power

of her predecessors’ spirits, asking them to enter into her and guide her to do the right thing. Somehow

calling upon them seemed more immediate, more useful, than to call upon the Five Heavenly Ones. She

had invented the little rite herself.

Lately Koshmar had begun touching the strip of black stone every day, and then two or three times each

day, while saying the names:

—Thekmur Nialli Sismoil Yanla Vork Lirridon—

She was having premonitions: of what, she could not say, but she felt that some great transformation

must be descending upon the world, and that she would stand soon in need of much guidance. The stone

was comforting in such moments.

Koshmar wondered if her successor too would observe this custom of touching the stone when her soul

was troubled. It was almost time, Koshmar knew, to begin thinking of a successor. She would be thirty

this year. Five years more and she would reach the limit-age. Her death-day would come, as it had come

for Thekmur and Nialli and Sismoil and all the rest, and they would take her to the exit hatch and send

her outside to perish in the cold. It was the way, unalterable, unanswerable: the cocoon was finite, food

was limited, one must make room for those who are to come.

She closed her eyes and put her fingers to the black stone and stood quietly, a husky, broad-shouldered,

keen-eyed woman at the height of her strength and power, praying for help.

Thekmur Nialli Sismoil Yanla—

Torlyri burst into the chamber just then, dragging Minbain's unruly brat Hresh, the one who was forever

sneaking around poking his nose into this place and that one where he had no business. The boy was

howling and squirming and frantically writhing in Torlyri's grasp. His eyes were wild and shining with fear,

as though he had just seen a death-star plummeting down toward the roof of the cocoon.

Koshmar, startled, swung around to face them. In her irritation her thick grayish-brown fur rose like a

cloak about her, so that she seemed to swell to half again her true size.

“What's this? What has he done now?”

“I went outside to make the offering,” Torlyri began, “and an instant later out of the corner of my eye I

caught sight of—”

Thaggoran entered the chamber at that moment. To Koshmar's amazement he looked nearly as

wild-eyed as Hresh. He was waving his arms and sensing-organ around in a peculiar crazed way, and his

voice came in such a thick blurting rush that Koshmar could make out mere fragments of what he was

trying to tell her.

“Ice-eaters—the cocoon—right underneath, coming straight up—it's the truth, Koshmar, it's the

prophecy—”

And all the while Hresh continued to whimper and yowl, and soft-voiced Torlyri went steadily on with

her story.

“One at a time!” Koshmar cried. “I can't hear anything that anybody's saying!” She glared at the

withered old chronicler, white-furred with age and bowed as though weighed down by the precious deep

knowledge of the past that he alone carried. She had never seen him looking so deranged. “Ice-eaters,

Thaggoran? Did you say ice-eaters?”

Thaggoran was trembling. He muttered something murmy and faint that was drowned out by Hresh's

panicky outcries. Koshmar looked angrily toward her twining-partner and snapped, “Torlyri, whyis that

child in here?”

“I've been trying to tell you. I caught him trying to slip through the hatch.”

“What?”

“I only wanted to see the river!” Hresh howled. “Just for a little while!”

“You know the law, Hresh?”

Robert Silverberg - New Springtime 01 - At Winter's End

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