Semiosis Read online

  “It hurts to lose a friend.”

  I said, as happily and as helpfully as I could, “We’ll try to make friends with them next time we meet.” That had been my campaign slogan: Next time, friends! But the way Cedar snapped her head around to look at me, I realized I shouldn’t have brought that up.

  “We need to do that.” Marie sighed. “We all do. Almost all of us still want friendship.” Translation: The friendship candidate, Lucille, won by a big majority, and you didn’t. She tried to edge past Cedar.

  “Then they should have voted for you,” Cedar said. Translation: Marie had also run for co-moderator and had gotten hardly any votes. That had been strange.

  She looked at Cedar for what seemed like a long time, sighed again, and said, “I have kidney failure, interstitial nephritis. I might not be alive when we meet the Glassmakers again. So I asked my supporters to vote for Lucille.”

  “What?” I said. It was the most intelligent thing I could think of to say at the moment.

  “You were a fine alternative,” Marie said, and entered a stall.

  Cedar looked at me without a hint of friendliness. “A drill,” she said, and left.

  “You had them vote for me?” I called to Marie.

  “You would have won anyway,” she called back. A deeply diplomatic response.

  “Oh,” I answered, another intelligent thing to say. I waited a minute to give Cedar a head start, then I headed back toward Tatiana’s funeral reception.

  We’d known Tatiana was dying. We’d all seen her naked at the spring festival when she announced her retirement. She could hardly walk even with two canes, skinny as a twig except for the joints swollen up from an infection. Then she burned the moderator’s chair—the real one—in the bonfire. That shocked everyone.

  And winning the co-moderator’s election had shocked me because I had run only because I teach—taught—preschool and I wanted to show them how elections work. “You need to think very far ahead,” I told the kids. “You should vote for someone with experience and maturity.” They nodded their little heads like they understood, and what did they go and do? Well, there were fifteen little heads, and then on election night, we were in the Meeting House crowded butt to butt on the benches, watching the election committee pull fancy little papers one by one from the ballot box, read them out loud, and put them in piles.

  “Lucille. Lucille. Cedar. Lucille. Flora. Lucille. Lucille. Bartholomew. Lucille. Marie. Lucille. Lucille. Lucille…” I’d voted for Marie. I got almost two hundred votes.

  Now Tatiana wasn’t there to give me advice anymore. Soft music and lots of talk would fill the Meeting House if I went back there. Who’d voted for me because Marie said so? Daisy, probably. And Kung and Nye. (Nye came back from the mission scarily changed: quiet, serious, no more arguing, no more flutes.) The new fippmaster, Monte, who had he voted for? He was spending the evening with the kats and kids, helping them practice dancing, and he was so quiet and patient you never knew what he thought. Hathor and Forrest, they were Cedar voters for sure. My parents? Who knew? Two hundred votes for me—I’d never figure it out.

  I’d tried to. On the night of the election, I helped Tatiana home and asked, “Why did they vote for me?”

  She took several slow, painful steps. “Octavo said a long time ago that Pacifists were big fippokats. The perfect Pacifist is happy and helpful. They’re playful. Gentle. That’s you, Lucille, the biggest fippokat in the city. That’s what people wish they were. They want a fippokat to represent us to the Glassmakers.”

  “Well, thanks, well, I mean…”

  “And young. You’ll last a long time. Elections are disruptive, so people don’t like them.”

  “Well, yeah.” I was the first child in Generation 7, a lot older than anyone else in my generation, just old enough to be co-moderator. As soon as I’d hit puberty—properly chaste, I might add, since no one else was of my age—I decided that face paint would mark my generation, and I began painting up a storm, new colors and patterns every day. “Will I have to quit teaching?”

  “You’ll have too much to do to teach anymore,” Tatiana said. We’d arrived at her house, and she patted my cheek with a dry, cold hand. “Go back to the election party. Drink a lot of truffle. Your troubles start tomorrow.”

  But that tomorrow had really arrived today, a week later, the day she died. Trouble now filled the Meeting House. My tomorrows had just started. So instead of going back to the funeral reception, I decided to go to the greenhouse, and I kept the door open so Stevland and I wouldn’t be talking in secret.

  I sat down and put my feet up on the table. “Hey, that was nice, what you said at the funeral.”

  After a moment, words flashed on his stem. “Greetings, Lucille. It is customary to speak sincerely at funerals.”

  (He’d said: “It is like a grove being taken from me. No one but she ever argued with me. No one but she ever became angry with me. It was a practice of equality that surpassed belief and ideation. We were not friends, she and I. I do not believe she liked me, but she never hesitated to try to teach me. I am a better Pacifist because of her.”)

  “Tatiana taught us all,” I said, then, “Cedar wants to hold a drill in case Glassmakers attack.”

  “Indeed. Tatiana taught me to aspire to mutualism with the Glassmakers as the civilized course of action rather than remain trapped in my fears and sadnesses, and I mean to continue to pursue civilization aggressively. Together we can balance, Cedar and I. As with you. You are optimistic, and you have good social skills, things which do not come naturally to me and which will be important to build friendships with Glassmakers and to overcome Pacifist fears.”

  Translation: I’d have to help him with Cedar. As if I could. “Yep, I’m a big fippokat.”

  “Yes. Humans and fippokats are social animals that avoid violent and aggressive behavior, and the Glassmakers are obviously social as well. I believe this is why few people support Cedar.”

  Humans aren’t violent? That’s what he thought. Tatiana had given me a steel knife and a heavy history lesson. Jersey wasn’t Pax’s first murderer. But that didn’t make Cedar right, did it?

  Who had Stevland voted for? Well, he had to know about Marie, since he helped with everyone’s health.

  But he wanted to talk about missing far outpost groves again. Every time he didn’t hear from one for a couple days, he panicked, even if the only problem was that the wind was blowing pollen the wrong way. Understandable, though. I was scared of slugs and crawfish, he was afraid of fire and lots of other things. Tatiana had said that he was unhappy, that he didn’t even know how to be happy, and that she was no one to teach happiness. And now she was gone, leaving me.

  But fippokats were happy no matter what. I listened, and I said that friendly Glassmakers wouldn’t set fire to Pacifists, and I hoped he felt better. I felt like too much depended on me. I said, “Water and sunshine,” and went home.

  The next morning, I painted my face fippokat green and went to the Meeting House to practice Glassmade sounds with Stevland and Marie. The Sun was shining bright through the roof, splashing colors all around. Most of the debris from last night’s reception had been cleaned up, and some of Harry’s art still decorated the room. Marie and I sat down at the table. I wondered about asking about the election, but I’d have won anyway, right?

  I took a deep breath. Tatiana’d said I could imitate Glassmade because I didn’t mind making a fool of myself. Marie had learned some Glassmade on the mission, and I was going to need to talk to the Glassmakers sooner or later.

  “Aaah kak weeooo!” I yelled, then I laughed. I’d probably scared every bat in the city. “How was that?”

  “Do the kak again,” she said. “I think you finally got it.”

  “Kak! Kak! Kak! Kak!”

  “That’s it. How do you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You close your throat and push with your diaphragm,” Stevland said.

  “How do you k
now?” I said.

  “Understanding human speech meant understanding their vocalization techniques. I dedicated a root to that, as I must do now for vocalized Glassmade.”

  “Roots! I want a Glassmade root. I need to learn Glassmade faster. We can’t make friends if we can’t talk.”

  “Correction. You want a Glassmade voice. Vocalization is not a plant characteristic. Chromoplasts are a plant characteristic, and with the appropriate graft, you would not have to paint your face anymore. I can offer you a rainbow of colors.”

  I thought a minute. “Did you grow a humor root?”

  “You said I would find it enlightening, and you were correct.”

  “Oh.” I’d told him a while back to lighten up and grow a humor root, but since he didn’t have a humor root then, I guess he didn’t know I meant it as a joke.

  I said, “How about the aaah? Aaah! Aaah! Does that come close or am I farting instead of pooping?”

  “I received no gift,” Stevland said. That humor root at work.

  “Tense your vocal cords more,” Marie said.

  “Moderators. Excuse me,” Carl called to us from the door. Back so soon? Yes, there he was, and with a couple dozen people behind him. He was our top scout, supple as a kat and nervous as a bird, short and tan. He could walk for forty hours without resting, he knew what was around the bend of a path even if he’d never seen it before, and he could sneak up on an owl. He’d left that morning to go down the river valley all the way to the sea, a three-week trip supposedly to prepare for a salt-making expedition, but we all knew that what he was looking for wasn’t salt.

  “Carl!” I said, and then to be a playful fip, I said it like a kak: “Karl! Come in. Kome iiin! Your report! Tell us all about the ocean. Still wet? Still big? How’s the salt? It’s great to see you back. Quick trip, too. Everybody, kome iiin!”

  He took off his hat and came in, sweaty, wearing heavy hiking boots and a camouflaged cape. The rest followed him, murmuring because they knew what he was going to say. Well, something about Glassmakers, obviously. He sat down at the council table to give a formal report, his fingers drumming bird-nervous on the tabletop. Cedar came dashing in and stood near the front. She already carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, so I knew what she expected.

  (The mission hadn’t seen any bows and arrows among the Glassmakers, and when they got back, she had practiced until she could shoot an arrow accurately at two hundred paces and always went sleeveless to show off her arm muscles.)

  “Glassmakers are here,” Carl said.

  Glassmakers!

  I flashed a big kat-happy smile because I didn’t know what else to do. The room got perfectly still, and so did I on the inside, but not a calm stillness. Couldn’t let that show, though.

  He said, “They’re in the valley downstream from the waterfall. I saw, oh, I’d say a hundred, carrying a lot of gear, about to come up the cliff. I ran back, but they move fast. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Everyone looked at me, and I had to set the tone. One hundred? We’d been counting on a diplomatic mission, like maybe a half dozen, and we weren’t even ready for that. But the tone: serious and calm. Fake calm would do. “Well,” I began.

  “Call everyone in!” Cedar shouted.

  “Well,” I tried again, “that’s—”

  “That’s too many,” she said, “and they move too fast. If they aren’t friendly, we have to be prepared.”

  “I—”

  “It’s fine to be dedicated to peace, but now isn’t the time to take chances—”

  “Stevland,” Marie murmured, “fires?”

  “I have no roots east of the geologic fault that creates the waterfall. I have no observations.”

  “We get to meet them at last!” Daisy rejoiced.

  “Not a hundred of them,” Hathor said. “Not the way they smell!”

  “But we want to meet them, right?” Nevada said. “They made this city. They have a right to it. And if we’re locked up inside, that wouldn’t be friendly.”

  Marie nudged me. “A hundred would be the entire village, if they’re the Glassmakers we met.”

  “Well, yes.” Happy, helpful, playful—a lot of good that did right now, with everybody arguing. Marie should have been elected. Everyone was looking at me, expecting me to know what to do. “What do we do?” I murmured to Marie.

  “There’s still time for a diplomatic mission,” she murmured back. “Ours. Bring people in as if it were an eagle attack, and then a few of us can meet them.”

  “I concur,” Stevland’s stem said.

  I stood up. “All right! Here’s the plan: Everyone inside, and then we’ll send out a diplomatic mission.”

  “Inside?” Daisy wailed. “But we want to meet them!”

  Cedar didn’t hide her contempt. “Another diplomatic mission!”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And if it goes well, we all get to meet them, but a hundred Glassmakers, that’s the whole village, isn’t it? If it’s the same Glassmakers.” Cedar’s eyes got big. Translation: She hadn’t thought of that. “Now, everyone inside! Hey, they stink and there’s a hundred of them, so we need to be careful, got it?” A few people nodded. “Glassmakers are coming! Let’s get ready! Kak! Kak! Kak!” I grinned like a happy fip, what a lie. I felt like … well, I didn’t know how I felt.

  People started moving. We knew how to prepare for an eagle attack. Everyone inside is the first step. Trumpeters blew the call to return to the city, farming teams began running home, and trained bats flew out on reconnaissance.

  I rounded up our diplomats. Stevland ordered the thistles around his groves to stand at attention. Crews hauled in firewood, boats, and everything valuable from storage sheds and workshops outside the city. Monte rushed to the lion pack, which grazed a few kilometers northeast, and we would communicate with him using smoke signals and bats trained to deliver messages in exchange for food.

  Glassmakers were coming! Friendly? Tolerable? Or a damn disappointment again? We’d been waiting since Sylvia’s time for this, and legends—if you can believe legends about her anymore—said that she cried when she saw Rainbow City in ruins and realized she’d never meet one. Now we’d meet a whole village. I hoped they were nice just so I wouldn’t have to deal with Cedar anymore.

  Most people waited up on the walls. We diplomats waited outside of the city at the river bluff: Marie, Kung, Bartholomew, Carl, a couple of other Committee members, and I. Cedar was up on the wall somewhere.

  The wall. Almost two meters tall, it kept out nasty little things like slugs, but eagles could jump over it, and some kinds of deer crabs, and maybe the Glassmakers could jump it, too. We’d repaired the wall and added some shelters for archers, but Cedar wanted more, and for once she was probably right, but we hadn’t had time to do more.

  Outside, at the bluff, I waited and looked down and around. Shiny gold tulips bloomed in the damp fields next to the river, and soon their leaves would sprout. Up on the bluffs on both sides of the river, beyond the roads, grain and cotton had germinated, and lentil trees spotted the landscape like purple polka dots. We grew the trees scattered so an attack of scorpions would get only one tree before we could stop them. Pale new leaves were everywhere on the trees and shrubs and snow vine hedges at the riverbank, and stands of rainbow bamboo stood here and there. It looked pretty, orderly, and promising. Would the Glassmakers like it?

  Marie stood next to me, and tears shook on her lower eyelids. I’d have hugged her, but Kung had already wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Nye was in the greenhouse to relay messages from Stevland, because he didn’t want to see any Glassmakers at all, and who could blame him?

  He shouted: “The Glassmakers are at the old outpost.… Farther upstream … at the ridge. I am getting little attention.” Translation: They aren’t burning me. Nye’s voice sounded relieved.

  I felt for the steel knife under my shirt, because Tatiana had said it made her feel brave to wear it, but I didn’t want to feel brave, I wante
d to hop around like a kat with no worries at all. Behind us, teams pulled the gates shut and the big hinge posts grumbled in their greased sockets and bars were dropped in place with a bang that vibrated through the stone-and-brick walls.

  I listened. “Glassmakers are noisy, right?” I asked Kung and Marie. They nodded. We couldn’t hear anything. Finally, a bat flew overhead. “Big animal animal coming!” Up on the wall, someone shouted, “I see them!” A lot of people started shouting.

  Well, I couldn’t see them from down on the ground. “Where?” I called.

  “On the road on the river bluff,” someone answered. “They’re carrying something, a big box.” More shouting and waving up on the wall. I recognized Daisy’s voice: “Chik-o!” which was sort of like the word we thought meant hello.

  I squinted at the road, and there were three or four Glassmakers a half kilometer away, right where the road comes out between a couple of trees, and they weren’t moving. The box was big enough to hold a fippolion.

  “Scared,” Kung grunted. “They see us, big city, people shouting.” He began waving. I waved, too, and shouted, “Chik-ooo!” Friendly, not scary, not scared.

  They seemed to huddle—everyone had committee meetings, apparently—then they picked up the box, one at each corner, and started running toward us. They moved quick, two-jointed skinny legs held far out from their body, just like the dolls I used to play with. Major castes.

  “Anyone we know?” I asked.

  “Hmm. Don’t know,” Kung said. “Let’s wave.”

  “This is just a diplomatic mission, right? Just these four guys and a box. Nothing to it.”

  The Glassmakers stopped suddenly, set down the box, squawked something at us, and ran away, fast as lightning. Mission accomplished: Deliver the box.

  “There’s writing on the box,” Marie said. “I was hoping some of them could read.”

  “Let’s go read it,” I said. Up on the walls, people were arguing over whether to open the gates. Cedar was screaming no. I decided to pretend I was deaf and kept walking, modeling calmness, for all the good it might do. Diplomacy depended a lot on lying. I’d already learned that from Marie. The gate stayed shut.