Kabardan Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

One early morning not long after his return to Tregonëv, Domojon awoke from a splintering nightmare of his own, so terrifying that the other Human cupped their hands to their heads and moaned with sympathy-fear.  He arose, tired and angry, in the cold of the dawn, accepted his breakfast of mushroom bread and honey, and participated in the lively Dance of the New Sun's Beginning and the Dance of Daylight's Return.  Then, while the other Human went out into the city to their jobs, and the younglings sat in a circle by the wallscreen for a lesson in the Tilach language of the Kabards, Domojon took his place in his alcove-office and began to record notes about a client into his notescreen; but his heart was not in work.  He checked his appointment calendar: at ten, a healing-court administrator whose dreams consisted of falling headlong from the petto in the Court of the Divine Wind.  Fear of change, fear of new responsibilities, fear of the brash face of God.  Nothing difficult in that, thank Aramkai!
"Is anything wrong, child?  You are pale," called Charalth from his bone-white dais.  For once, Domojon cursed the layout of the Court of the Humanqueen: nothing like the single-person cloud-houses of the Kabards, with their splinterlike ascents to pettos high above the earth.  Human lived like Human clans, in a single room with a smooth arching roof and high windows of opaque quartz-glass and walls a noxious mushroom-white.  They all slept on a single huge mat, ate around a single huge table, danced and coupled and played on instruments of music and made rainbow images in their minds as a group.  Kabards said that Human had always lived thus.  Perhaps they were right.  Still, sometimes Domojon felt an urge to go up into one of the meditation chambers in the Court of the Divine Wind and lock the door behind his  -- and then he would feel guilty.  Unless it was absolutely necessary, quarantine in an illness or the like, for a Human to be alone was unnatural and evil.
"No, Charalth. . .I am well," Domojon called back.
The younglings had abandoned their lesson to stare curiously at him, and an adult Human who was home pregnant hoisted herself from his palm couch.  "I could bring you some soothing aralth broth," he offered.  "I was just going to make some for myself anyway."
"No, thank you.  I'm fine."  A sedative. . .just what he needed!  Trembling with guilt and fatigue, Domojon called to canceled his next appointment.  Then he walked to the long oak table by the entrance-lintel and grabbed a few coins from the communal pot. "I'm going to purchase a stylus," he muttered.  "Mine's not fully energized."
"Here, you may borrow. . . ." Charalth began, but Domojon was already out the door.  Meandering, as if he were trying to decide on a shop, he crossed the Court of Everlasting Mercy, then the Court of the Unfaltering Virgins and the Court of the Palimpsest.  Kabards and Human were milling about, along with a few Humans, and even a very few Ceraines and Val.  One Human from his Court nodded a greeting, eyed his curiously as if to say "Why aren't you at work?"  Or perhaps it was just his imagination.
Instead of turning left into the Court of the Gleaming Iron (where one once bought notebooks and fountain pens, and now datarod supplies), he turned right, crossed the Court of the Lotus and the Court of the Five Billion Gods.  Hundreds of statues of gods, demigods, heroes, and demons met him.  Gods glowed as streetlamps, dispensed water or snacks from their bellies, offered tourist maps for an iron coin dropped into a slotted palm, told their tales in five languages at the touch of a button.   The smallest were dainty porcelain figures in a doll-house size model of the Nurseling Heaven.  The largest, a muscular anthropomorphic Kensor, rose eighty feet over the square, straddling the entrance to the Court of the Divine Wind.
Although anyone who wihed could mount the parapet of the Court of the Divine Wind and study in the meditation rooms or simply take in the view, none could enter the thirty-two rooms of the court without the Godking's consent.  Domojon stood before three clerks, who phoned higher-up clerks, passed the Guard and a private Guard and two security gates, before he found herself at the elevator marked "Court of the Godking."
The Godking was meditating on a sky-colored cushion in his sky-colored Cloud Room, fifty stories from the ground.  Each of the walls was of thick, pure glass, so the Godking could look out in any direction; to the south, the dark stormy sea; to the north and west Tregonëv, the city of a thousand courts, a labyrinth of towers and red brick cloud-houses and dark passageways.  To the east were the roads and rice paddies and misty quiet hills of Elaku.
"Well, Domojon, the jewel in my cape!" Nok Dragon exclaimed.  It was only an expression: Nok Dragon owned no cape.  As the leader of every Kabard king, abbot, and ambassador, he was forbidden to ever appear with any clothing.  Domojon often wondered about this: the higher the personage, the more we must gaze upon the body which is the receptacle of greatness; the lower, the more we would cover the body.  In fact, the higher individuals were rarely in a situation where they would need clothing, for their air was heated or cooled as needed, and the ground they trod on was covered by thick carpet.  The lowest class, the slaves, wore thick tight costumes with many hooks and knobs: perfect for guiding someone about by the neck.
"I greet you, Nok Dragon, in the name of all the Human," Domojon said in formal (he hoped not a stiff) voice.  He leaned his head toward his without touching his nose and then sat on the floor across from the Godking.
"You have been very busy the past weeks," said Nok Dragon.  He was a tall Kabard, very old, apparently, with a mane too thick and black to be real and red-gold skin splotched with grey.  His eyes were yellow, large and eloquent, his teeth professionally-sharpened and as white as milk.
"Yes.  I have counseled many Kabards here in Tregonëv, and twice I have ventured to Moreveq at the top of the world."
A servant appeared, bearing two goblets of sweet apricot juice and a plate of small cakes on a silver tray, but the Godking waved his aside.  He took a datarod from the cloisonné chest by his cushion and wrote a few characters into the notescreen with his stylus.  "Your fame is spreading greatly, Domojon; all Kabards give you an excellent report.  Just yesterday I have an inquiry concerning your services from the administrator of the Kaluo Temple in Párdunad.  Few Human have risen so high at your years -- few Human have risen so high at all."  Now he took one of the goblets and drank deeply, gazing into his eyes.  "Yet you seem troubled."
"I am very troubled, Lord Dragon.  In the last months, many of my clients have dreamed of Mozhäu."
"What a curious coincidence."  Nok Dragon absently stroked his crystal globe of office; like a wallscreen, it displayed vistas of distant lands, changing with each move of his fingers. "Many Kabards -- most, perhaps  -- believe in Mozhäu still, but in the temples they ascribe to Him the status of legend.  Contemporary theologians maintain that He walks within the soul of every Kabard, as entropy, the Principle of Confusion.  Others. . .well, perhaps I shouldn't mention this."
"No, it's alright," said Domojon.  He guessed what he was going to say next.  "Go on."
"In the dark savagery of the past, many described the Human as the body and blood of Mozhäu, and refused to allow them entrance into their regencies.  Human were burned and beheaded, all sorts of barbarity performed in the name of Our God Kensor, the Sun."
"That barbarity may be returning," Domojon said softly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lord, when I visited Moreveq recently, I found Gorban mandating returns to many ancient customs, some of which seem best forgotten."
"Gorban has always feared the new,"  Nok Dragon said, nodding his head from side to side, "Particularly the opening of the greatdoors.  I must admit, however, that I am a bit troubled by these Terrans myself.  An entire planet inhabited by nothing but Humans.  What happened to the Kabards of Terra, Domojon?"
"I don't know."  Domojon was looking past him, to the east, where a thunderstorm was misting a distant valley.  Strange that this room was so high that they could look down at storms.  "I didn't think there ever were any Kabards there."
"Or perhaps the Humans of Terra exterminated them.  And the Human, and the Ceraines, and all of the other Terran tribes."  He was no longer smiling; his long hands cradled his globe of office, and his mouth grew tight and bloodless.  "And perhaps someday they will desire to exterminate the Kabards of Tulë as well.  They certainly have the power, in their armored vehicles and grey fiery bombs."
"Such weapons are much too large to pass through the greatdoors," Domojon said in a half-hearted protest.  "And why," he continued, "Would anyone want to exterminate the Kabards?"
"Many Humans hate us," said Nok Dragon.  "It is natural to hate that which is different: our animal-bodies hate by instinct.  Our nurture-towers and temple schools exist for a large part to train away this hatred, this instinctive repulsion."  He reached out and took Domojon's hand in his, rubbing his thick gritty knuckles with his fingers -- not a caress, but the autopsy-chamber examination of a scientist.  "But are they ever entirely successful?  Perhaps civilization merely presses down that hatred, encloses it in a hell like Mozhäu trapped in Emekhtal, encloses it in ruës like the Eluse revered in Uted Markum.  Perhaps a new stimulus, like the Terrans, is sufficient to make it break out again."
"That's as may be, Lord Dragon, but the fact remains that your high king Gorban dreams of an approaching apocalypse, and he may act to see that dream fulfilled.  He may be capable of razing the Terran embassies in Moisubra, of destroying the greatdoors.  If he can gain control of Pelún, he will even be able to invade Terra."
"Yes, yes, these things are possible, if unlikely."  He was silent for a long time.  "It is possible that Mozhäu himself has returned.  If so, His reign will be inevitable, a law of the universe, to be embraced rather than dreaded.  Perhaps that which we call evil, Domojon, should be embraced rather than dreaded, diluted through wise deeds rather than spurned outright."
At that moment a servant rose in the red-draped elevator, and with him was Gorban, dressed for traveling in a golden fur cape and a three-tiered crown of office.
"Talking about me?" he asked, grinning broadly.  "Domojon, what a surprise!  You are ubiquitous, aren't you?"
"My regents do indeed have the authority to seek my presence without permission," Nok Dragon said with an icy stare.  "But only you, brash youth, have the officiousness to do so!"
"I beg your forgiveness, but in these last days rules of decorum must be broken."  Gorban was no longer smiling.  He sat on the floor next to Domojon.  "Perhaps even one or two mandates of the Five Billion Gods will be cast aside before holy men may rest."
"As long as you're here," said Nok Dragon, "Could I offer you a drink?"
"Green pear wine."
The godking lifted a disapproving eyebrow.  "At this hour of the morning?  The gods ask us to take all things in moderation.  Perhaps if you eat something first. . . ."
Gorban looked toward the elevator, where the red-clad servant was timidly waiting.  "And some cinnamon incense, if you please."  He nodded and vanihed into the earth.
"What is the purpose of your visit, if I may ask?"
Gorban turned his great shaggy head to Domojon.  "It is a matter of some. . .uh. . .delicacy.  Do you mind?"
"Oh, of course."  Nok Dragon released Domojon's hand.  "Would you excuse us, dear child?  You may visit me again. . .perhaps at dusk today?  Or after my Sixthday address tomorrow morning."
"Or perhaps not."  Gorban's eyes were gleaming, and he smiled.  "Farewell, Domojon," he said in a cool, disturbing voice.  I will be seeing you soon."
Domojon went to a wallscreen viewing store, rented several cassettes of Terran sarefthi (Elusan with Tilach subtitles), and watched them all afternoon: three episodes of Gilligan's Island, two of I Love Lucy, two of Toby's Garage.  They weren't particularly funny, but at least the trouble of deciphering the Elusan kept his mind occupied.  Then came the Dance of Night's Unfolding and dinner and Charalth's evening homily, and sleep, early, while the communal bed was still empty.
He awoke the next morning feverish, with a slight headache.  It was Sixthday, and he had Akrava had planned to visit a new exhibit of tropical palms at the Court of the Seed-Bearing Towers, a vast botanical park on the outskirts of Tregonëv.  He thought of canceling, but then he decided that open spaces might do his good (however blasphemous that sounded).  After the Dance of the New Sun's Beginning and the Dance of Daylight's Return, he ruhed to Akrava's cloud-house.  He was just setting out two folding chairs on his petto.
"You're just in time!" he exclaimed.  "Just hand me that bowl of sardine crackers, will you?  And the cheese."
Domojon looked at the entertainment-snacks set out on the other side of the glass doors.  "In time for what?" he asked.  "Aren't we going to the Court of the Seed-Bearing Trees?"
"We can go there anytime.  Don't you listen to the morning announcements?"
"Not usually."  He bruhed his nose against his in greeting.  "Why, should I?"
"Today you should have: you just missed the news of the century!"  He gestured toward the Court of the Divine Wind, to the porch where Nok Dragon delivered his public addresses.  Crowds had already gathered, many more than those present during his usual Sixthday homily.  And wallvision cameras: Domojon saw banks of Human reporters, and gibbering Ceraines, and languid Val flown down from their chalk hills.  "It's the Call of the Six Spheres!" Akrava said.
"A what?"
"A challenge to the Godking's ascendancy."  He went into the main room and brought out the crackers and cheese in large wooden bowls.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Call of the Six Spheres is an ancient contest, but still licit."  He returned to the main room for some small plates and knives, and then for a clear flask of milk and two cups.  "You know that the Godking is an incarnation of Kensor, right?"
"Of course."
"Well, what if he isn't?   What if the abbots made a mistake?  According to law, anyone. . .I mean any Kabard. . .can claim that he is the true incarnation of Kensor, and challenge the reigning Godking to a contest.
"And someone did?"
"Not just someone.  Your old friend Gorban."
Gorban as Godking!  Domojon's head reeled; his breakfast drew up hot and acid into his throat.  For a moment he thought he might be sick.  He sat cautiously on one of the flimsy linen chairs.  "Gorban!" he repeated.  "How could he have the. . .the temerity to challenge the Godking?  Doesn't he believe. . . ."
"If you really believe that a mistake was made, you have a moral duty to challenge a false Godking."  Akrava laughed.  Was this all a joke to him?  A way to pass the time on a dull Sixthday?
"But how can you decide something like that?  Isn't it a matter of faith?"
"They ask questions.  Lots of questions."  Akrava sat down beside his and passed his a cup of milk.  It was still warm from the microwave, flavored with almond and ginger.  "Kensor knows all things, of course, so both Nok Dragon and Gorban will be asked questions about history, philology, science but. . .mostly about philosophy and religion, of course."
"And who decides?"
"Shh. . .you'll see."  He passed his the bowl of crackers.
As was his custom, Nok Dragon sat naked on an oxhide in the center of the porch.  On the wallscreens installed across the Court of the Divine Wind and in the Court of the Five Billion Gods, Domojon could see his face: intense, joyful, beatific, the face of one of the Sixteen Contemplating Gods described in The Jewel of Repose.  Gorban sat on an ordinary chair to the left (no wallscreens portrayed him), and between them sat one of the most famous theologians and scholars in the Kénsoraj faith, the Abbot of the Temple of the Resplendent Flame in Pardunad.
Suddenly a deep gong sounded.  The electronic loudspeakers placed on the Godking's porch crackled and buzzed.  The Abbot stood.  A television crew lowered a boom microphone toward his head, and pointed gunlike cameras at him.  He appeared on the wallscreens as an aging Kabard with loose white-grey skin and a spotty zinc-grey mane, naked save for only a medallion of red glass.
  "The sun of knowledge speaks all languages," he said, thrusting an arm toward still-low Kensor in a grandiose gesture. "So I will question first in Tilach, then in Classical Tilach, Sarkani, Classical Chárilik, Svarvaich, Pritvan, the Elusan and Runoen of the Humans, and the Eranach that only monks in deep cavern-temples learn.  The Godking and the Pretender must respond in the same."
"Sounds dull so far," said Domojon.  "I only speak Tilach and a little Elusan."
"I had to study most of them," said Akrava.  "I'll translate if I can."
"The first question is: What are the perils that may befall one who follows the Third Path?"
"Hah!  Easy. . .baby catechism!" cried Akrava.  "Even a nurseling or a Human would know that.  Give them something a little difficult, for the Third Moon's sake!"
Nok Dragon stood and spoke impromptu for ten minutes on the dangers of pride, lusting after knowledge, and spiritual gluttony.  Domojon thought it one of his better homilies.
"The second question is: What are the six spiritual and three carnal natures of Kensor?"
Gorban stood.  In the wallscreen closeups, he looked fresh, confident, with a charismatic gleam in his eye that betrayed little pride or cynicism.  He spoke for a reasoned ten minutes, then took his place again.
The questions and answers continued for hours, sometimes abstract and complex ("In what way does Being differ from Substance?"  "How do Ertevhen, Artai Bear, and Nok Llahagésh differ in their understanding of Intentionality?"  "Can death be better defined as Provocation or Emulation?), sometimes concrete and precise ("From what ur-Tilach root does the word Soul come?"  "In what year did Jurávh-hzergai compose The Twelve Songs of Lisuu?"  "What are the chief political divisions of the Human nation of Zoreim?").  The audience milled about, purchased orange ices and Pepsi from vendors, wandered into the souvenir shops that lined the Court of the Five Billion Gods which neither Sixthday nor a Challenge could compel to close.  Akrava got up twice for more snacks, and more than once absently reached for his datarod to access the wallscreen schedule and see if there were any good (or adequate) movies on.  Nok Dragon and Gorban were allowed no food or drink, only a few moments for personal hygiene every hour, and when Kensor the sun rose to his full height, the concrete of the porch must have seemed like a hot griddle.  Sweat dampened their faces and manes, glistened on their chests.  Their speeches grew shorter, their words low and indistinct.  Nok Dragon, much the older of the two, made two glaring grammatical errors during a response in the Elusan language.  He stumbled, changed his mind halfway through a sentence, used inappropriate metaphors ("as green as milk" when he meant "as green as the mountains").  One question brought only a long silence.
Gorban faltered, too, but not so much, and when Nok Dragon came to need attendants to lift him from his oxhide, he began to wear a sneering grin, to add a little sarcastic bite to his responses.  "Of course I know the six types of justice delineated in the Old Sarkani Code of Civil and Canon Law."
Kensor the Sun was hot and heavy in the western sky when the Rector raised an ivory-tipped staff, and the deep gong sounded again.
"The decision has been made," he said.  His voice, too, betrayed the cracks and blurring of one too long without water.  Wearily he turned to his right and handed the staff to Gorban.  The audience cheered.
"Well, that was fun,"  Akrava said.  "You don't see a Changing of the Monkeys every day.  It lasted too long, though."  He sniffed the air with a puzzled expression.  "Cinnamon.  I think it's you. . .your sweat always smells of cinnamon.  Are you too warm?"
"No."  Domojon looked up at the grey wisps of cloud floating across the copper-colored sky, at Kensor dull and fat on the horizon.  "That is the scent of fear."