AFTERWORD—
PSIREN
“Psiren” is actually a sequel to a novel I wrote, Psion. Publishing schedules and story commitments being what they are, however, it got published before the novel did. I had promised George R. R. Martin that I would do a story for the fourth volume of his New Voices anthology, in which I was due to appear, having been nominated for the award in 1976. Committing yourself to writing stories to a deadline is a lot like making a deal with the devil (although the editor and the author probably disagree about which role they’re in), especially if you happen to be a very slow writer, like I am. I had made the mistake of agreeing to do several stories for different editors around the time I was due to write this one, and I’d also committed myself to attending a number of science fiction conventions. My personal life was also in a lot of turmoil, not a little of which was due to planning a wedding (my own). I needed a story idea that I thought would flow easily.
At the time I was also preparing to start revising Psion, a classic “trunk novel”—something I’d written long ago, before I had any ambitions about becoming a published writer. (I’d had the “restless urge to write” for years.) For some reason, I couldn’t forget about the characters, and after nearly half a lifetime I still wanted the novel published—although not in the form it was in.
I’d sold Psion with the understanding that it would be extensively revised, but I hadn’t realized how much revision I would really decide to do when I sat down and reread it (It’s gratifying to a writer to look back on old work and see exactly what’s wrong with it—it’s proof that you’re improving.) I’d always felt that I’d like to write a series of stories about the protagonist of Psion, following him through his life; the idea for “Psiren” was to be the first of them. I thought that it would be simple to write “Psiren” because I had the background and the main character already.
But as I tried to write it, I realized that, if it was going to be consistent with the revised novel, I had to do all the background work for the novel before I could finish the novella. As a result, it took a lot longer to finish the story than I’d anticipated. (I wasn’t alone in causing George to do a lot of groaning. I once got into a good-natured debate with one of the other writers from the anthology about whose story was really the one that held it up the longest “Mine!” “No, mine—” Strangely enough, it was very comforting. But it has made me cautious about how quickly I agree to sell stories that I haven’t written yet. It’s a luxury to be able to finish something before you sell it, but sometimes it’s also a necessity.)
And despite the amount of backgrounding I did before finishing “Psiren,” there were still some discrepancies that occurred by the time I finished Psion. As a result, I’ve made some minor revisions in this version of the story to make it consistent with the novel and to make the background clearer for readers who haven’t read the novel already. (I strongly believe that sequels should stand on their own as stories as well and not have to depend on anything else for the reader’s comprehension and enjoyment)
MOTHER AND CHILD
Part 1: The Smith
All day I have lain below the cliff. I can’t move, except to turn my head or twitch two fingers; I think my back is broken. I feel as if my body is already dead, but my head aches, and grief and shame are all the pain I can bear. Remembering Etaa . . .
Perhaps the elders are almost right when they say death is the return to the Mother’s womb, and in dying we go back along our lives to be reborn. Between wakings I dream, not of my whole life, but sweet dreams of the time when I had Etaa, my beloved. As though it still happened I see our first summer together herding shenn, warm days in fragrant upland meadows. We didn’t love each other then; she was still a child, I was hardly more, and for our different reasons we kept ourselves separated from the world.
My reason was bitterness, for I was neaa, motherless. The winter before, I had lost my parents to a pack of kharks as they hunted. My mother’s sister’s family took me in, as was the custom, but I still ached with my own wounds of loss, and was always an outsider, as much from my own sullenness as from any fault of my kin. I questioned every belief, and could find no comfort. Sometimes, alone with just the grazing shenn, I sat and wept.
Until one day I looked up from my weeping to see a girl, with eyes the color of new-turned earth and short curly hair as dark as my own. She stood watching me somberly as I wiped at my eyes, ashamed and angry.
—What do you want? I signed, looking fierce and hoping she would run away.
—I felt you crying. Are you lonely?
—No. Go away. She didn’t. I frowned. —Where did you come from, anyway? Why are you spying on me?
—I wasn’t spying. I was across the stream, with my shenn. I am Etaa. She looked as if that explained everything.
And it did; I recognized her then. She belonged to another clan, but everyone talked about her: Etaa, her name-sign, meant “blessed by the Mother,” and she had the keenest eyesight in the village. She could see a bird on a branch across a field, and thread the finest needle; but more than that, she had been born with the second sight, she felt the Mother’s presence in all natural things. She could know the feeling and touch the souls of every living creature, sometimes even predict when rain would fall. Others in the village had the second sight, but not as clearly as she did, and most people thought she would be the next priestess when she came of age. But now she was still a child, minding the flocks, and I wished she would leave me alone. —Your shenn will stray, O blessed one.
Old hurt pinched her sun-browned face, and then she was running back toward the stream.
—Wait! I stood up, startled, but she didn’t see my sign. I threw a stone; it skimmed past her through the grass. She stopped and turned. I waved her back, guilty that my grief had made me hurt somebody else.
She came back, her face too full of mixed feeling to read.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy too. I’m Hywel. I sat down, gesturing.
Her smile was as sudden and bright as her disappointment, and passed as quickly. She dropped down beside me like a hound, smoothing her striped kilt. —I wasn’t showing off ... I don’t mean to. ... Her shoulders drooped; I had never thought before that blessedness could be a burden like anything else. —I just wanted to— Her fingers hesitated in mid-sign. —To know if you were all right. She looked up at me through her long lashes, with a kind of yearning.
I glanced away uncomfortably across the pasture. —Can you watch your shenn from here? They were only a gray-white shifting blot to me, even when my eyes were clear, and now my eyes were blurred again.
She nodded.
—You have perfect vision, don’t you? My hands jerked with pent-up frustration. —I wish I did!
She blinked. —Why? Do you want to be a warrior, like in the old tales? Some of our people want to take the heads of the Neaane beyond the hills for what they do to us. I think in the south some of them have. Her eyes widened.