Greg Bear - Hegira

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HEGIRA
by Greg Bear
_______________________
Copyright © 1979 by Greg Bear
Revised text copyright © 1987 by Greg Bear
A TOR Book
First TOR edition: January 1989
Cover art by Alan Gutierrez
ISBN: 0-812-53163-9
eBook scanned & proofed by Binwiped 11-16-02 [v1.0]
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did
wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and
blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went -- and came, and brought no day . . ."
-- Darkness, by Lord Byron
One
The short, stocky Ibisian general motioned for his aides to step up to the balcony. "Look
closely," he told them as they stood next to the Mediwevan deputato. "Here's true barbarism."
Below the balcony, a parade of penitents filled the rain-slicked streets.
"These are ascetics from Monta Ignazio, General Sulay," the deputato stuttered. His teeth were
chattering. He had never been closer to his country's savage, unwelcome guests than he was now.
The methane lanterns in the room hissed.
"They whip themselves," Bar-Woten said. He was a lean, well-muscled man in his middle
thirties, with one gray eye and a black patch. His nose hooked sharply.
The penitents had gathered from leagues around for the night march through Mediweva's capital,
Madreghb. Men, women, and children dressed in brown sacks, black and white clerical robes, or the
red of deacons and priests swung leather cats against their backs, the strands weighted to age and
devotion. Beneath cloth tatters their flesh was raw as ground meat.
"This is religious inspiration!" Sulay rasped. "The Heisos Kristos of Mediweva demands that
they poison their bodies with infection to see His visions. Absorb this and learn from it. We've
met with many peoples and their religions, but none is more amazing than this."
Bar-Woten watched with distaste and finally turned away. His eye caught the deputato's, and he
winked at the thin official. "Not to my style," he explained. "I grow faint at the sight of
blood." The deputato laughed nervously, then lapsed back to respectful silence.
Sulay stepped back from the balcony, shaking his head and fingering his pistol's holster
strap. "I'd like to visit your library now." The deputato nodded and led him away. Bar-Woten
stayed behind to watch the penitents flogging themselves. Their moans bothered him like a boil
under his armored vest. They were ecstatic. The ecstasy of visions. "Barthel!" he called. His
servant appeared, grinning and dressed in splendid red silks.
"I think I could like living here," Barthel said, fanning his arms out. "It's cool and the
clothes are beautiful."
"What can you tell me about Kristians?"
"My country had a few, Bey. But I am of the Momad persuasion myself, as you understand, and we
avoid intercourse with the unfaithful. Except for yourself, sir, who shine like the light..."
"'Shines,'" Bar-Woten corrected. "Your lessons in Mediwevan are slipping." He had chosen
Barthel from a group of captured children fifteen years before in the now desolate land of Khem.
The armies of Sulay, Bar-Woten among them, were responsible for that desolation. But Barthel
showed no memory of the slaughter. He knew only those things he was required to know, and the rest
seemed to sink in his memory like plum stones in a pond. He was a cheerful lad.
"Bey, I could tell you tales my mother told me, but some are very crazy. You might not
believe. This Heisos Kristos -- or Yesu as we knew him -- is mentioned in all the Obelisks I have
ever known, and his story is always the same."
"Which is food for the argument that all Obelisks have the same words engraved on them."
"Certainly. I believe that is part of Momad's divine doctrine, as his word is mentioned on
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all, the faithful must acknowledge that, and -- "
"Why do they beat themselves for this Heisos?"
"It gives them strength to deny the attractions of the world, Bey. By punishing themselves
they hope to distract their attentions from Hegira and focus them on Paradise, or Heaven, which is
what their Yesu -- surely a great prophet-- desired and preached them to do."
"But Yesu never lived on Hegira."
"No. It is dogma that no person mentioned on the Obelisks ever lived on Hegira. They were the
First-born, Bey."
Bar-Woten nodded and stared up into the night. Soon an orange fire dove would rise like a
distant flare, signaling the ninth hour of dark, and the sky would begin to turn purple. In a half
hour it would be morning blue. The streets would be empty of pedestrians as Mediwevan law had
decreed for five hundred years. The wagons and steam vehicles would travel from the fields and
lakefronts, and the capital would come alive with day-life: markets and buyers, bookdealers and
street historians, all wholesome services for a fee. Bar-Woten enjoyed this city and its
peculiarities. He even felt a mixed affection for the crazy penitents.
"I can tell you very little about Yesu, Bey," Barthel said to indicate he had not been
dismissed. Bar-Woten waved his hand, and the boy vanished with a rustle of robes.
He was glad not enough of Sulay's armies was left to destroy Mediweva. In their twenty-year
March the armies had dwindled from two million to ten thousand. They could still rely on their
reputation to achieve diplomatic victories, and on occasion a few hills topped by lines of the
remaining soldiers could persuade reluctant leaders, but the March was over.
They had crossed fifty thousand kilometers, the regions of five Obelisks, and yet spanned only
twenty-three degrees of Hegira's curve. The survivors of Sulay's March knew the immensity of
Hegira as no others had known before them. For two years now, since the last of their geographers
and geometers had finished their reports, Bar-Woten had marched in fear not of man -- he had
killed at least two thousand men, and they did not haunt him -- but of the world on which he
lived.
That evening Sulay called Bar-Woten to the library. The Ibisian left Barthel in their quarters and
walked down the cool stone hallways of the capital palace, looking up at the frescoes crumbling in
the dimly lit vaults. The sense of age oppressed him tonight. So many years, so much time to do
evil things ... layers and layers of human pressure bearing down on him like miles of rock.
The frescoes showed scenes of war taken from Obelisk texts. Bar-Woten felt the painter's lack
of firsthand experience acutely, both proud and revolted by his own knowledge. Shaking his head
and grimacing, he entered the door to the library.
The musty smell of paper and ink and old leather bindings hung heavy in the still air. The
oxygen seemed to have been sucked out by years of rotting pulp. He restrained an impulse to choke.
A middle-aged, balding librarian guided him through long, winding stacks and stopped, pointing
with a knobby ink-stained finger calloused on the first knuckle.
Sulay sat on a stool, a large book spread across his lap. His gray hair and bald spot shone in
the tier of oil lamps set beside him. Bar-Woten noted the pump-action fire extinguisher hung on a
fixture.
"Young Bear-killer," Sulay said, looking up. Bar-Woten bowed slightly.
"The general needs his rest," he said solicitously.
Sulay ignored him. "The Mediwevans have ascended a little higher than we have," he said,
thumbing the pages. "Better balloons, I imagine. More texts, more advances, but they haven't seen
fit to apply their new knowledge, not yet. Many odd things as the texts go higher." Sulay closed
the book carefully and placed it on a small folding table. "I could spend my whole life in
libraries. Much less exciting than the March, eh?"
Bar-Woten nodded. Sulay's demeanor changed considerably when he was among books. Bar-Woten
wasn't sure he approved, though something in himself was attracted to the endless shelves. "Less
strenuous at least," he said.
"These people know us as soldiers, murderers, plunderers," Sulay said. "No doubt we've done
enough of that. But they will never appreciate us as scholars. Yet what we could tell them! They
know very little of Hegira, but a great deal of the Obelisks. I know very little of the Obelisks .
. . and I wish I knew more. But..." He sighed. "My time is at an end, Bear-killer."
Bar-Woten respected the old man's lengthy silence. At last Sulay lifted his head, and there
were tears on his cheeks. "Never enough time. Never enough. The March is over. They aren't very
good at fighting here in Mediweva, but they far outnumber us, and our ruses aren't working any
more. My audiences with the Holy Pontiff have been more and more strained. An old soldier's
instincts warn me. . . . He will swat us like a buzzing wasp. Our reputation travels before us,
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even in the insular countries. We have not been circumspect." Sulay looked Bar-Woten steadily in
the eye. The old general's pupils were large, absorbing. "You will go on."
"Not without you, General."
"Without me, without your fellow soldiers, however you must. You'll finish the March. We
didn't journey to kill and loot, but try telling that to an army of Ibisians ..." Sulay put his
hand on the book. "That's my commission to you. If anyone will survive, you will. Go now, or very
soon."
Bar-Woten nodded.
"Go and find what I wanted to find."
"Yes, General."
"You would do that even if I didn't tell you, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
Sulay picked up the book again and opened it.
"It isn't safe here, General," Bar-Woten said. "They can come from both directions and pen you
in."
Sulay didn't react.
"General?"
The old man dismissed Bar-Woten with a gesture. He turned and walked through the stacks, fists
clenched.
The morning of their ninth day in Madreghb brought clouded skies and a pale drizzle that turned
the capital into a fairytale province. The richly carved walls of the Duomo and the Middle
Sacristy attracted Bar-Woten and dazzled Barthel as they walked alone through the city. Wearing
his dress whites and a windbreaker, and according Barthel the same privilege, he ignored the damp
and studied the architecture.
The courtyard of learned debate drew him as sugar draws an ant. Here scholars, readers, and
Obelisk students gathered with then" practical counterparts -- engineers, geometers, and
theologicians. They debated loudly over a narrow roadway separating then: bleachers, below an
aqueduct carrying water from the southern branch of the Ub. Cars and trucks hissed between them
irregularly. The white drizzle beaded and dripped from the debaters' black leather cloaks, pooling
on the wooden planks that ran the length of the stone seats.
Barthel was amused. "They discuss the teachings of Yesu," he whispered in an aside to Bar-
Woten. He nodded and listened more closely. They stood on a walkway bridge mounted on one side of
the aqueduct. Water rushed to its appointments behind them, splattered with occasional raindrops.
One theologician kept his dignity and calm amidst the ruckus. He commanded a fine voice and
his wit was incisive. They listened for a while, then moved on. Bar-Woten frowned as they left the
aqueduct. Had Heisos, or Yesu, been a firm warrior with words or a debater of pedantries?
The weather worsened. Lunching in a smoky wooden parlor-house with glass windows slacked by
age, they watched the drizzle thicken into rain, much as the grease of a lamb congealed on their
plates. "I change my mind about the cold; it is unpleasant," Barthel said, drawing his jacket
collar tight around his ears. "I often wish the Bey had chosen to reside in Khem, where it is
usually warm." Bar-Woten nodded.
The day would soon collapse into dark. He didn't enjoy the thought of walking after dark to
the capital square and the Nocturne, essentially unarmed. It was unhealthy.
They set out just before the dimming began. At this season the days were ten hours long and
the nights fourteen. The weather promised to be foul in the dark. The wind nipped and curled
around their backs, making their eyes sting. Cats scampered in a wet tide from one alley into
another, yowling miserably. Bar-Woten saw why as they passed the alley -- a rain gutter edging the
roof of the inn had broken, turning a dry corner into the base of a cascade.
"It would be good to take shelter," Barthel said from under his jacket. The boy's eyebrows,
bushy at the best of times, now knitted to form a solid ragged streak across his brow. His dark
brown eyes were slitted against the raindrops.
Bar-Woten shielded his good eye and looked at the entrance to the hostel. He knew
instinctively it would be a vermin paradise. But he distrusted wet weather in strange countries.
Enough diseases had plagued him in similar conditions to make him wary.
"Wait," Barthel said, peering back into the alley where the cats had lodged. The cascade had
subsided to a trickle. Something moved at the back. It was shapeless, larger than a man. Barthel
stepped backward and Bar-Woten's neck hair rose.
He wiped his eye with the knuckle of his thumb. The shape was nothing monstrous after all. A
man was struggling under a pile of wet papers and rags, weak and unpromising labor at best. The
Ibisian's first thought was to leave well enough alone -- this possible plague victim was no
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friend to a visitor without immunity. But the man was not sick with plague; he was weak from blood
loss. They approached him cautiously. Bar-Woten crouched next to the pile.
The man was a penitent. His whip was still hooked to his belt, lashes tangled in his scraped
and bruised legs. But this young fellow was no priest or professional ascetic. He was barely
twenty and nearly dead. His back wounds had festered enough to give him fever visions sufficient
for a lifetime. Now he was unconscious. Bar-Woten called for Barthel to help and together they
picked him up by the arms and legs. "We'll take him to the hostel," he said.
"He's in bad shape," Barthel said. "He'll die soon anyway."
The hostel desk was unstaffed. The interior of the building was fitfully lighted by gas lamps.
Disintegrating wallpaper crept up the walls, and the floor creaked suspiciously. A smell of wet,
decaying wood mixed with the animal smell of the hostel's patrons. It was a miserable place for
anyone to die in. Therefore, Bar-Woten told himself, the young man would not die.
He rang a verdigris-crusted bell. The half-sotted proprietor appeared shortly after. He took
their names and their money and raised a hairless, worm-white eyebrow at the penitent. "Can you
get a physician?" Bar-Woten asked.
"No," the proprietor said, heading back to his room. "If he dies, you'll have to move nun."
"I am an Ibisian," Bar-Woten said softly. "If this man dies here, I will have this building
condemned."
The proprietor stopped and turned to reexamine him. "You can find a doctor a block down. We
have nothing to do with penitents. They aren't too popular here."
"And Ibisians?" Bar-Woten asked testily.
"Unarmed Ibisians are only human," the proprietor said. "I employ bullboys like every other
innkeeper on this strip. They carry rifles and crossguns. Do you?" He turned and waddled off.
Bar-Woten picked up the key from the desk and told Barthel to summon the physician. He hoisted
the penitent from the floor and swung him over his shoulder.
The stairs were steep and in bad repair. The room was abominable. An open skylight admitted
rain until he tied a dirty blanket over it. The beds were in fair repair and looked clean. Perhaps
health regulations were enforced with regard to beds, but cleaning facilities were minimal,
toilets were one to a floor and public, and other regulations ended at the edge of the mattress.
Paper scraps and dirt littered the torn patchwork carpet.
The penitent sighed and rolled over on the bed, then groaned. Bar-Woten stripped off his
bloody clothes and took the basin down the hall to clean it and fill it with water. The plumbing
banged hideously in the narrow washroom. When he came back the man was sitting up against the
headboard and staring feverishly into empty space. Using a handful of powdered soap and paper
towels, Bar-Woten began to scrub him down. Few of the wounds were deeply infected. Nevertheless,
he knew an antiseptic and clean bandages would have to be applied, or blood poisoning would set
in. He had seen small wounds fester into deadly foul pockets many times on the March.
Barthel returned with a small, seam-faced doctor a half hour later. The man said his name was
Luigi, examined the penitent quickly, and expressed his reluctance to treat him. "He's one of
God's own," he said. "God will take care of him."
"You will take care of him, or he'll die," said Bar-Woten. "You wouldn't want to be charged
with malpractice, would you? I can take you before a deputato if you wish."
The little doctor shrugged and set his bag down. "You cleaned him?" he asked. Bar-Woten
nodded. "I'll have to do it over again," the doctor complained. "He's whipped himself into a fine
fever."
An hour later the penitent was bandaged and sleeping fitfully. "He'll be weak for a day, maybe
longer. Why do you want to help a penitent? Did he ask for help?"
Bar-Woten didn't answer. Barthel thanked the doctor and paid him a gold piece. They sat in
silence and fell asleep before morning.
Bar-Woten stood by the skylight on a rickety stool, lifting the stained blanket and peering
out across the smoke-tracked foggy rooftops at the wan morning light. The slate and tile roofs
glistened with an oily sheen of dew and reflected the golden zenith. The horizon was still deep
blue. The zenith light expanded and turned yellowish, then green. In a wink the green accomplished
its magical transformation into blue. A steam can hissed and rattled in an alley below.
"Won't the master Sulay miss us, Bey?" Barthel asked sleepily from his blanket on the floor.
"Not for a while," Bar-Woten answered. He turned to look at the man on the bed. His breathing
was light and regular. His pale face had taken on a better color during the night. He looked
almost healthy.
Bar-Woten checked his pulse and pinched his fingernails, and still the man slept. Barthel said
pounding rocks together wouldn't wake a healing man before his body was ready.
"You told me your mother knew stories about Kristians," Bar-Woten said. "Do you remember any
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of them?"
For the briefest of moments the boy's face clouded and his eyes narrowed. Then it was clear
again and he smiled. "Not too well, Bey. Mostly derogatory stories about their customs, which I am
no longer qualified to criticize since I share them with you very often. The eating of unclean
foods, the drinking of wine and other forbidden beverages."
"Nothing about why a man would drive himself to illness to meet his god?"
"No, Bey."
It was perhaps the same reason two million men had once left the beautiful land of Ibis to
cross the Atlasade range into Barthel's land, Khem. Or why they had tortured themselves by
crossing the Pais Vermagne, a thousand kilometers of swamp and pestilence and deadly reptiles,
instead of taking an easier route -- all to investigate legends in Khem of the City of the First-
born. They had found a monotonous grassland and a central range of hills as barren and dusty as
the deserts west of Ibis. No treasure, no fabled city.
The penitent was also searching for treasure, and his trek was just as rugged. Bar-Woten
questioned his own sanity in feeling sympathy, but he did. Sympathy and warmth. Welcome, fellow
traveler. How many souls have you killed inside yourself trying to find the right one to present
to God, saying, Look -- pure!
Surely not as many souls as I have killed, he thought, mostly in the bodies of others.
"Hello," the penitent said. Bar-Woten started from his reverie and looked at the man sternly.
The pale face returned the stare like a statue. The lips were fever-cracked, the nostrils red with
broken vessels. "You've put me up for the night?"
"Nothing honorable," Bar-Woten said. "You nearly killed yourself. Most people's gods resent
suicide."
"Where am I?"
"A hostel."
"I have to leave." The penitent's watery green eyes filled with enormous black pupils. The
corners of his mouth turned up perpetually, and his eyes crinkled at their edges as though, like a
mischievous child, he might laugh at any moment. But these were betrayals of his body. He was
perfectly serious.
"Nobody's holding you. You should get your strength back, however. Eat some food."
"I'm on a fast."
"For how long? Until you starve?"
"I'm starving now. It brings me closer to my goal."
"And what is your goal?"
"To live in the light of God, not the mud of the world."
"What's your name?"
"Jacome. Yours?"
"Bar-Woten."
"A peculiar name."
"I'm an Ibisian. I picked the name up when I killed a bear fifteen years ago. He clawed out an
eye before he died. Bear-killer, of the One-eyed God. Bar-Woten. Why do you call yourself Jacome?
That's not your name. Am I right that penitents, if they try to deny the world, must deny
themselves? Change their names?"
"Yes," Jacome said. "Fools of God. Buffoons."
"Then what was your name before you changed?"
"You'd have to ask the fellow I was. I can't answer."
Bar-Woten motioned for Barthel to leave.
"Tell me about your god," he said.
"You're interested?"
"I am."
Barthel sat outside and leaned against the wall. His eyes surveyed the ceiling, searching for
bugs to amuse him, certainly not interested by the drivel being spoken inside. He did not
understand his master at times. It was often hard to like Bar-Woten. He was kind, but he loved
nothing. Barthel, on the other hand, wished to love everything. That was impossible with Bar-Woten
constantly calling for him. The man's gloom was sometimes appalling.
Bar-Woten interrupted Jacome's discourse long enough to debate a few points of logic. "This
Heisos, also known as Yesu, is on every Obelisk across Hegira, right?"
"He is."
"Then why isn't everyone converted by His truth?"
"Because there are words on the Obelisks that contradict what He taught. Inspired by the
adversary."
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"How do you know which to choose, which is right?"
"By the heart, the way it beats to the right words."
"Did Heisos live on Hegira?"
"No."
"Then was His mission intended for the Second-born?"
"For all humanity."
Barthel paced in the hallway, bent to listen at the door, then had an inspiration. He would go
out for food. But he had very little of the Bey's money with him. He knocked cautiously. No
answer. They were still talking. He feared the penitent might convert the Bey. A dreadful thing.
He knocked again. Bar-Woten opened the door.
"Master, shall I buy food for all of us?"
The Bey looked at him intensely through his single eye, then reached into his jacket pocket
for a coin. "Good food, fresh, and a variety of it. Enough to last all of us for a day or so."
Barthel grinned and ran off.
Bar-Woten shut the door and asked Jacome another question. "What made you find the grace of
Kristos?"
"The guidance of my heart."
"Can you remember what made you follow your heart?"
Jacome scowled. "It's only important that I found the truth in time."
"But you forget what happened. Was it someone who helped you?"
"I haven't forgotten. No one helped me at first. But when I joined the Franciscans, they
helped me."
"I want to know what converted you. Perhaps I can find something like it in myself."
Barthel found his idea less attractive when he stood on the street. There were no food stalls
nearby. The Bey's presence, at any rate, was always reassuring. Now, alone in a city he did not
know well, he felt his pulse rise and his eyes widen. The people did not look harmful. Still, any
city held thieves, cutthroats, pickpockets. Monsters to suck a poor Momadan dry. The Bey's
teachings from Barthel's youth could not eradicate this fear.
As Barthel walked, swaggering slightly and looking from side to side to show his confidence,
he thought of the comforts of Khem and how they had passed in such an inconceivably short time.
The Bey had never bothered to explain or excuse the actions of Sulay in Khem -- and for this
Barthel was thankful. He didn't think he could stand the propaganda other servants told him they
were regaled with. Bar-Woten was a good master.
But if it ever came to light who had killed his father and mother and two sisters . . .
Barthel's swagger stiffened. He didn't know what he would do. He was young and no fighter. At
times he wished he could be a fighter and kill Sulay, cold fishy Sulay, who cared only for
kilometers crossed and confirmations of the greatness of Sulay.
But food was the order of the moment. He found a clean-looking stall that purveyed crullers,
tins of coffee, and fresh vegetables. He didn't bother with the meat. Ibisians, like Momadans on
Hegira, were not meat-eaters for the most part. They preferred vegetables, fruits, and fish or
fowl.
He bargained rapidly and without mercy. The stall's owner, a man four times Barthel's age,
smiled and gave in a little. Eventually a price was reached and they hooked thumbs, Mediwevan
style.
The parcels were heavy. Barthel decided to rent a cart. He hailed a bicycle-drawn taxi when he
saw no carts were available. The hack was little older than himself and regarded him with sharp
dark eyes and taut lips. The fare hardly seemed worth pulling. But the hack mounted his wooden
bike and pedaled without strain up and down the fiat-cobbled dips and gutters. Barthel relaxed his
guard to look at the surroundings more leisurely. It didn't seem a bad city. Busy people were
everywhere, and few were lame or crippled or ill-looking.
The Bey was still talking with the penitent when Barthel returned. The young man was sweating
and looked upset. His hand motions were jagged, and he stammered. The Bey was as firm and
persistent as ever. Barthel dropped the packages in a corner and sat down to listen.
"I can't tell you how I saw the wisdom of the Lord Heisos. It's a private matter."
"Can there be private matters between two souls striving for salvation?"
"For this soul there is. You may confess what you wish."
"Fra Jacome, I have learned much from you. Would you care to raise your health for God's work
by joining us in breaking fast?"
"You sound pious, Fra Bar-Woten. I know you're not. You're ridiculing me.'
"I am sincere. I wish you to join us in our meal."
"You know I can't eat until the Fast of Francis is over."
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Barthel disapproved of what the Bey was doing. He was baiting the penitent, drawing him onto
limbs and cutting them out from under. The Bey had a deadly way of finding out how other people
thought, like dissection. Barthel allowed himself a moment of judgment on his master.
"Your health will break and you'll die."
"Why are you interested in my health? Your people would sooner destroy us than spit on us!"
Bar-Woten shrugged and lifted his eyebrow. "I can't speak for other Ibisians. Perhaps they do.
Me, I wish to know what makes a man whip himself in the name of a God Who is kind."
"My God is not kind!" Jacome bellowed. "He takes away cruelly and has no mercy for those who
do not know and perform His wishes!"
Barthel cringed in surprise. The Bey had found the weak point he wanted.
"Then how did you come to love Him? Out of fear?"
The penitent tried to speak, but stammered into silence. His eyes were bright with tears and
anger. "You p-p-pry," he managed to stutter. "You t-twist my tongue like a serpent."
"I am curious," Bar-Woten said. "And concerned."
"I saw the light of God in the middle of an agony so great
I couldn't stand it. I grieved so deeply I died. And when I was reborn, I was the child you
see now, still not mature in God's eyes. I was a scrittori. I recorded the writings on the
Obelisk. I was going to marry a woman of my own age in a village near Obelisk Tara. We were nine
months betrothed." He paused and caught his breath, his wild look abating.
"She had been born the same day as a boy in Castoreto. They came from different families, but
they looked alike. Some said they were twins by God's will. This boy was an apprentice scrittori.
I knew him from our schooling. He fell from the side of the Obelisk and died, and that same day my
only life and love froze hard as a block of ice. Her skin became a mirror. Nothing could revive
her. That is what killed me -- a touch from God's finger told me not to adore the beauties of the
world!"
It was Bar-Woten's turn to be astonished. Speechless, he stepped away from the bed and walked
to the skylight. "Doppelgangers, I think," he mused softly. Barthel cocked his head. "Do you
remember the story?" the Bey asked him.
Barthel nodded, a little shiver going up his back.
Two
Jacome sat in bed with his face frozen, staring stonily at the opposite wall. One finger tapped on
the counterpane. He seemed willing to sit that way forever.
Bar-Woten ate a quick breakfast. Barthel joined him on the floor, eating ravenously. His
master kept no eye on the penitent, so Barthel observed him closely.
"What does it mean to you?" Jacome finally asked.
"It's an old story," Bar-Woten answered around a bite of melon. "A fable. The Princess and the
Poor Man."
"It's no story. It happened."
"I don't doubt that," Bar-Woten said, turning around on his hindquarters to face the bed.
"What was your name then?"
"Kiril."
"And you felt God was punishing you."
"She was all I loved."
"It's ridiculous to believe God would punish someone else for your own wrongdoings. That's
ego, not Kristianity."
"I know that." Jacome-Kiril flushed like an embarrassed child. "Why did you pull me out of
hiding?"
"I don't know," Bar-Woten said.
"I can't go back."
"You've never heard the story of the Princess and the Poor Man?"
"No. I never enjoyed children's stories."
"I doubt it even exists in Mediweva, or someone would have pointed it out to you long ago.
It's about a Poor Man who wins a contest for the heart of a great king's daughter. The day before
their wedding she's transformed into a silver statue as hard as diamond. The king searches the
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land for the responsible sorcerer, but never finds him. However, he learns a peasant family had a
son born the same day as his daughter. They resembled each other so much they could have been
twins. The boy had died at the moment of his daughter's affliction. The Poor Man was stricken with
grief."
"I don't believe you."
"You might find the end interesting. A seeress tells the Poor Man who won the contest that he
must travel very far to save his bride-to-be -- to the Land Where Night Is a River. He will find
the Princess's male doppelganger, or double, when he crosses over that empty river to the land
beyond. When he returns the double to the king's land, the Princess will be restored. He does as
he is told, and she comes back to life."
Kiril stared at Bar-Woten. The pain in his expression was too much for Barthel. He turned his
eyes away.
"First you pull me out of my cave, and now you tell me there's some way to bring back my most
precious love."
"How could I have known about your grief?" Bar-Woten asked. "I'm no monster. Ask any Ibisian.
It's a story known to all of us."
"God damn you!" Kiril spat.
Bar-Woten faced the penitent with a stare as implacable as his own. He smiled. "Barthel," he
said without turning, "prepare our belongings and wrap up the rest of the food. We're leaving."
Then, his smile gone, he said, "Perhaps it's an offer, a chance to regain what you've lost."
"How? By some fantasy?"
"That, or let your body and mind rot in a life you're not suited for. Come with us."
"You want me to travel with your army?"
"There is no army," the Ibisian said coldly. "Soon there will be no Sulay. The dirt will
absorb us like the end of a river. I owe no allegiance to a dead dream. I've been looking for a
reason to go. I now have a reason."
Barthel was genuinely frightened. The Bey talked nonsense, believing a mad Kristian and
thinking a fairy-tale coincidence could point like a beacon! Momad save them all.
"We're both insane," Kiril said softly. "I pity you more than myself."
"Pity no one. There's no room for it. I have other reasons to make a journey. Some mysteries
to solve."
"What can possibly mystify a madman?"
"The world. The origin of the flesh. But mostly the world, our world. Why we are Second-born
and take our truths from Obelisks." He sighed and saw that Barthel had finished packing the food
and their meager burden of clothes. "Are you well enough to travel?"
"I can walk. You compel me to follow?"
"As one madman to another. I pulled you out of one cave, now I'm obligated to watch over you."
"It wasn't much of a cave," Kiril admitted. "I haven't met your companion."
"This is Barthel, from Khem." Barthel bowed and almost dropped the sack from his shoulder.
"But he won't be my servant for long. I won't force anyone to follow me."
"Where does the Bey think he will go?" Barthel asked.
"To the Land Where Night Is a River," he answered. "Or at the very least, to my death."
Three
"I don't think we're welcome here, Bey," Barthel said. The horse market was crowding with scowling
onlookers.
Kiril swept his tattered robes over his shoulder and tightened the rope that held them
together. "Something's in the wind."
"We'll stay close together," Bar-Woten said. "I think this trader wants our money more than
our necks. I'll bargain. You two keep close watch." He returned to haggling with the rheumy-eyed
horse dealer. The man puffed his cheeks out at Bar-Woten's offer and held up his hands. "Too
cheap," he said. "These mounts are noble beasts worth twice that at least. Let's say four fifty
apiece."
"Robbery," Bar-Woten said calmly. "Two fifty is all we have for horses today. We will buy
elsewhere."
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"Three seventy-five," the dealer said, not batting an eye.
"Too much." Bar-Woten turned and motioned for his companions to follow. The dealer ran after
them, looking concerned, but a small, portly man waddled from a nearby stall and whispered in his
ear. The dealer stopped and raised his bushy gray eyebrows.
"Not too high a price for a hunted man," he said loudly.
Bar-Woten twisted around and threw a needle stare at the trader. The man squirmed like a
pinned insect, then started to back off. The crowd moved in a step at a time, grumbling and
milling about.
"Knife," Bar-Woten said. Barthel quickly passed a blade
under cover of their cloaks. He pressed another into Kiril's hand. "If we don't have a chance,
save your skin. But go on your own," the Ibisian said. "It's your only chance, penitent."
"Is that too high a price for an Ibisian?" the trader asked contemptuously. "For a butcher?"
"For any sensible man," Bar-Woten answered, approaching him with a long stride. "Perhaps
you'll lower your price with some persuasion?" The trader backed away farther. He looked at the
market crowd with darting eyes and held out his hands to them -- attack, now! But they did
nothing, still advancing slowly.
"Hup!" Bar-Woten shouted. Barthel rushed forward and pushed the trader aside. Kiril followed
at his heels. The crowd leaped as one and Bar-Woten swung his curved knife wickedly this way and
that, making them flex like a sheet in the wind. Then he ran backward with comic agility, turned
at the last moment, and swung onto a horse Barthel had secured for him. Kiril, unaccustomed to his
own mount, had trouble controlling the animal's bucking and rearing, but was keeping the mob back.
Barthel reached for the Mediwevan's reins and pulled him after as Bar-Woten cut a path through the
market. The crowd screamed and grabbed at ankles, stirrups, whatever they could reach. For their
efforts they were kicked and cuffed and thrust aside by the running horses. The three broke from
the marketplace and rode up an alley, stopping briefly to reconnoiter.
"Which way?" Kiril asked, out of breath and red-faced with exertion.
"The east gate to the left. Farmlands and a road to the forests. The best way," Bar-Woten
said. He urged his horse forward and the others followed. Behind them the market crowd surged up
the alley.
There were no troops between them and the gate. In the misty morning light, bright and
uniformly gray, they rode up the cobbled streets with forced equanimity. The horses pitched their
heads and frothed at the bits, unaccustomed to their new riders and uncertain of the adventure.
Barthel's animal laid its ears back and tried to bite him several times. On the last attempt,
just before they passed under the great stone arch, Barthel leaned forward and took an ear between
his teeth. The animal bucked and kicked out, narrowly missing an old woman wobbling by in her
black robes. But Barthel held on, and the horse decided to be calm.
"Farewell to Madreghb," Bar-Woten said as they rode under the gate. Kiril looked
uncomfortable. Barthel surveyed the green country beyond with dark-eyed nonchalance.
"Does the Bey know where he wants to go?" he asked.
"North. We'll cross the border into Mundus Lucifa as soon as we can. Sulay's met his end, and
ours will be close behind if we don't move quickly."
"Your army generated a lot of good will," Kiril said.
"Keep on your horse and watch your mouth when you're an outlaw. Honor among thieves is a
virtue seldom observed -- be glad I'm not often a thief and no longer an Ibisian."
"And I no longer have God on my side."
"Your journey is a noble one, penitent. You're off to save your love. We ride hard for an hour
or so -- hang on!"
The land outside the scattered and crumbling walls of Madreghb was fresh and fertile with
spring rains. Almond trees blossomed yellow in groves on either side, and olive orchards hunkered
gray-green in aging shadow. The road was a reddish-brown gash infrequently paved with flagstones
and Uttered with ruts and puddles. Their horses splashed through at a dead run. The flanks of both
mounts and riders were soon sticky with mud. Kiril bounced and growled at growing blisters. "Ride
loosely, ride with the horse," Bar-Woten shouted at him, but he continued to wrap his feet under
the horse's belly and soon had welts on his calves, thighs, and buttocks.
He sighed aloud when they stopped at a tumbledown farmhouse to examine a well. "My God,
adventure!" Kiril rasped. "I might ask to die after another hour of that." His vision swam and he
wanted to vomit.
"You'll get used to it," Barthel told him.
"You were whipping yourself only three days ago," Bar-Woten reminded him. "Which punishment do
you prefer?"
The well was full, but the water was brackish. Still, it was drinkable, and they watered their
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horses, watching carefully that they didn't bloat themselves. Bar-Woten inspected his horse. It
was a dapple roan, very different from any he'd ridden in his army. He made sure the shoeing was
holding up. The smithy work was rugged and durable, and no stones had worked into the hooves. He
did the same for the other mounts and pronounced them fit. "Ready?" he asked.
This time they rode at an even pace. The smell of damp leather and warm horse rose to cheer
Bar-Woten and made Barthel feel at home, but Kiril wrinkled his nose. By midafternoon, the
Mediwevan was weary but only a little nauseated. His back was still slightly infected. They found
a stand of oaks and settled in for a prolonged rest.
Across the valley, no more than three or four kilometers away, a village rested in the late
afternoon twilight. The white walls and red brick roads stood out in the dimming golden light like
the bones and meat of a freshly-slaughtered steer. Bar-Woten watched it with narrowed eyes.
Barthel napped, and Kiril lay on his stomach in the grass and loam, breathing fitfully.
He struggled awake an hour later and stretched painfully, pulling at the lash stripes across
his shoulders. "I wish I hadn't been so thorough," he said. Bar-Woten smoked beside the small
fire. Darkness was complete. The Ibisian's face glowed in the firelight, and the reflection of the
pipe coals was a bead of red on his nose. "I wish I knew what I was doing here," Kiril said, "with
a savage like yourself and a pagan."
"You gave up one life," Bar-Woten mused. "Not so difficult to give up another, especially one
with no rewards."
"I'm a coward, I think," Kiril said. "I haven't had the conviction to stay with any sort of
life."
Bar-Woten gave a noncommittal nod and put out his pipe, pointing the stem at the village after
grinding the ashes into the ground. "We'll pick up supplies there. We have a long trip ahead --
several hundred kilometers, maybe, before we leave Mediweva."
"Less than that," Kiril said. "What happened in Madreghb? You have any idea?"
"Sulay probably let his guard down. He was getting too old to be vigilant all the time. No
doubt he was the last to die, though I think I see him . . . how he died. Not bravely. The way we
led our lives, few of us will die bravely now."
"You . . . think of yourself as a savage?"
"Of course," Bar-Woten said. "Twenty years of March and battle. How could I be anything but a
savage? I haven't married a fine woman or fathered good children, and my religion departed years
ago at my own hand. I've killed men brutally. And you're an ass to travel with me." He grinned.
"Probably," Kiril admitted.
Barthel woke quickly and doused the embers with urine. They gathered the horses at their
tethers near a small, grassy glade and rode into the village under cover of darkness.
"Did you enjoy being a scrittori?" Bar-Woten asked. Kiril nodded and said it had been the
finest time of his life.
"Did you ever wish to verify what you read?"
"No. What's written on the Obelisk is taken for truth. Why else would God have gone to so much
trouble?"
"Sh," Barthel hushed. A group of men leading donkeys passed them on the road, briefly flashing
a lantern. No words passed between.
Most of the village was shuttered and quiet for the night. A few shops were open still, but
the hungry and sleepy owners were grumpy at any customers. They bought food and two small pistols.
Bar-Woten decided it wasn't wise to spend the night in the village. He could almost smell the
pursuers.
"When people want you dead, you always assume the worst," he said. Kiril drew his horse closer
to the center of the road as they left the town. Barthel stopped, and his mount pawed the ground
impatiently. Bar-Woten turned to the Khemite and also reined in his horse. In the dark, with only
a few dim fire doves to light the landscape, he could barely see the road, and he couldn't tell
what Barthel was thinking.
"Does the Bey wish me to follow, or does he wish me to go alone?"
"You are free to choose."
"I'm not used to that."
"You're free to come with us if you want."
"I'm no longer your servant?"
"You haven't been for a day or so, maybe longer."
"I would like to go with you then."
"Good."
Barthel brought bis horse up even with theirs, and they marched abreast in the dark.
Bar-Woten was the next to call a halt. He perked his head up and listened intently. "Engines,"
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Hegira.txtHEGIRAbyGregBear_______________________Copyright©1979byGregBearRevisedtextcopyright©1987byGregBearATORBookFirstTORedition:January1989CoverartbyAlanGutierrezISBN:0-812-53163-9eBookscanned&proofedbyBinwiped11-16-02[v1.0]"Ihadadream,whichwasnotall...

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