Worrying, Rhiow thought as she jumped softly down from the windowsill. She had had enough of those awakenings herself lately with Iaehh, as his pain and longing broke through his sleep and made him call the name of someone who couldn’t ever answer him again on this side of life. Her own sorrow was hard enough to bear at such times, and always left her wondering What can be done for him? But there were no easy answers to the question in Iaehh’s case.
Where the Silent Man was concerned, however, the situation might be different; and Rhiow had been meaning to look into this. And having spent a little while in poor Delores’s physical realm a little while ago, I’m still set for this kind of work. Let’s see what we see…
She headed over toward the shut bedroom door, purred one of the shorter versions of the Mason’s Word, and passed through the door like a ghost. On the far side she paused to glance around. Here was another very underfurnished room, all done in white. Here another set of French windows stood partway open on the palm-shadowed utility yard at the side of the house; gauzy white curtains stirred slightly in the faintest breeze from outside. In the bed, under the covers, the Silent Man lay very still, curled up nearly in fetal position. It was troubling, almost shocking to see in an ehhif always so erect and rigid, as if only here in this most private place did he dare express in his body any of the stress and pain he felt. Down at the end of the bed, Sheba lay in a tight curl of fur only slightly less white than the coverlet, her tail covering her face.
Rhiow stood quiet in the dimness for a few moments, watching the ehhif’s breathing. It was very shallow. Too shallow. The drugs… But she was sure the Silent Man had listened to the warnings from his doctors about the drugs’ effects… and had taken them no more seriously than absolutely necessary. Most likely he thinks it’d be a happy accident if he simply failed to wake up one morning. Not that he would have arranged such a thing on purpose, of course. For even so short a time as she’d known him, Rhiow thought suicide wouldn’t be his style.
She paced over past the bed to jump up on the sill of the window that looked out on the other side of the house’s front yard. Outside a pallid mist was rising, colorless as everything else was in that hour balanced between night and morning. By human reckoning it was four in the morning, the time when People and ehhif alike were most likely to slip across the boundaries between life and what lay beyond, and sometimes not to come back.
Rhiow sat down on the windowsill, a shadow in the surrounding paleness, and gazed down at the man curled up under the covers, his face half-hidden by them. She didn’t need to go any closer to do what she had in mind, but there was something else keeping her at a distance. Even in his sleep the Silent Man had an aura of unapproachability, the same effect that had kept a clear space of sorts all around him at the party when all the other ehhif had been singlemindedly concentrating on breaking down barriers and injecting themselves into one anothers’ space. Maybe it’s no wonder that he had relatively little trouble getting to grips with us when we appeared, she thought. His mindset has something of the feline about it: the reserve, the self-containment of the good hauissh player who watches and waits….
Rhiow composed herself and concentrated on clarifying to herself what she intended to do here. The one goal she would most have desired was unfortunately not available to her. I can’t save his life… For the Whisperer had told her how this poor ehhif’s story was to end. To save the Silent Man would mean changing history.
And not for the better. It wasn’t just a matter of how he’d lived his life or what he’d done – the great pleasure he’d brought many millions of other ehhif by the stories he’d told. It was his death itself, in these circumstances, that was going to make the difference. Right up until the Silent Man died, so terrifiedof cancer were human people in his time that they wouldn’t even speak of it. “Died after a long illness”, was the usual euphemism – if they used it at all. Or if the illness had even been long. It was the Silent Man’s death and his friend Walter’s refusal to be quiet about it, the angrysurvivor’s stubborn insistence on calling the Silent Man’s death by its right name, that would begin the slow change of how ehhif handled the whole issue of cancer. Thousands would be helped in the near term of time by all the money and publicity that Winchell would bring to bear on the issue, and after that, many millions more would have their lives lengthened or at the very least improved, as the in a culture that had completely changed how it went after this particular human malady.
So this was not a death that could be averted or avoided. But if I can at least spare him some pain on the way… Rhiow thought. That would do. I’ll have a look around, then speak to the cancer and see if it will hear me.
Rhiow closed her eyes and assembled the spell in her mind, then silently started to speak the words. The stillness of the room around her faded down into a silence even more profound as the wizardry began to work and the surrounding space leaned into slow compliance with her will. In the dimness, darkness started to fall all around her, only the Silent Man’s form under the covers remaining distinct and growing more so.
What Rhiow had in mind was something less straightforwardly interventional than what she’d done to Delores’s insides. The wizardry she was working was as much on herself as on the Silent Man, a matter of shifted perceptions. As the room faded around her, the ehhif’s body seemed to grow, but at the same time its structure seemed both to fade and to begin abstracting itself into something more like a schematic than the body’s reality of interconnected tissue, of muscle and bone and lymph. All around Rhiow a scatter of slowly strengthening light was starting to build itself into structures that would express the Silent Man’s internal ecology and all the forces working in it.
The effect would take a while to refine itself to the point where Rhiow could best interact with it. She jumped down off the windowsill– that being almost all that was left of her previous perception of the room – and stepped cautiously into the growing outlay of lines of light that was the way the wizardry was rendering the Silent Man’s body. It had a way to go yet before she got down to the one-Angstrom level that she needed to deal with: such profound shifts in perception levels couldn’t happen instantaneously.
As the wizardry worked, the darkness around Rhiow also began to be lit by flickers of the Silent Man’s own perceptions of the wizardry, filtered through the intervening medium of sleep and caged inside the lines of light. It was an expected side effect of doing such a wizardry while the subject wasn’t fully conscious. The surface of the Silent Man’s mind shivered with the dream, a tremor like that of the dreamer’s closed eyes. But the tremor was a troubled one, and the disruption penetrated down into the slowly building abstract, shaking its fabric and infusing it with alien vistas. It’ll pass, Rhiow thought. Fairly quickly, I hope…
All around Rhiow spread a view of scrubby desert country. Under other circumstances it would have seemed unfamiliar, but here inside the Silent Man’s sleeping self Rhiow had access to his memories, and recognized it as he would have. The dry dun-colored surroundings all scattered with sand and mesquite were part of the empty country south of the Mexican border, all too familiar to the Silent Man after months spent covering the turn-of-the-century border skirmishes between Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders and the outlaw Pancho Villa. There in some nameless, dusty stucco-built village in the depths of Jalisco province, a fair-haired barefoot girl in ragged skirt and blouse stopped in the street to stare at the tall thin stranger, then ahandsome enough young man despite being worn down by the long and violent campaign he’d been covering for the sensation-hungry Hearst papers.