Green Monkey Dreams Read online

  It was some time before I looked at them well enough to note that they were different in another aspect from humans. They had wings. Not glorious enormous feathered things such as medieval angels might wear, nor even gleaming transparent wings of butterfly gauze, or I should have noticed them sooner. Their poor shrivelled little wings of flesh had forgotten how to flap.

  Seeing the wings, in spite of their smallness and weakness, I understood that what I had said to my mother all those years ago had come to pass. Fairies had indeed got hold of me, though they did not call themselves Fairy but Vaeri.

  There was no visible way of differentiating male Vaeri from female. They were telepathic, though often they spoke aloud as well. They moved in a languid, sinuous way that always reminded me of seaweed waving in slow motion under the ocean.

  The biggest difference between our races, though, was not their size, or their wasted wings, but their agelessness. It was impossible to say from their faces if the Vaeri were young or old, yet their eyes seemed immeasurably ancient. When I understood that they were immortals I gave up lethargy and disbelief and began to try to communicate with my keeper, wondering if here, at last, I should find truth.

  Of all the Vaeri, my keeper alone seemed able to display emotion, and at first this was so subtle as to be imperceptible. Gradually I became aware that he was pleased when I responded to his overtures. He was the only one of that giant race who tried to reach me with words and pats and small fumbling kindnesses. His name was Borth Jesu H and he named me Awen-du.

  I learned the language of my captors with extraordinary rapidity, and only later understood that the potential for this language, indeed the memory of it, was buried in my genetic make-up. At the time I thought it was my own brilliance that enabled communication with these alien beings.

  My life among the Vaeri fell swiftly into routine. There would be great periods of time when Borth would ask me about my life. In particular, about my suicide attempt. I was more interested in finding out if the stories of fairies on Earth had been planted by his people, and what it was to be immortal. He always managed to turn the topic to his own questions, though. If I asked too persistently where I was, or why, or even how I had got there, he would simply go away and leave me alone.

  In between our long conversations and being fed the tasteless paste which Borth said cost much effort to prepare, I would be bathed in ion rays that separated all grime from my flesh, and taken to an enormous room with a great vaulted ceiling open to the stars. This was a sort of circular amphitheatre around which sat rank upon rank of white-robed Vaeri facing a small central stage where I was made to stand.

  My first trips to this room were frightening simply because I was afraid I was to be killed and eaten, or sacrificed.

  But no one even addressed me, though the speakers would often point at me. As I learned their language I came to understand that the word they called me, Uman, meant monster. Once it would have mortified me to be called that, but since the Vaeri themselves could not help being aware of my likeness to them, I assumed it could not be my form in general that repulsed them.

  I know now that this likeness of human to Vaeri was the very thing that made me a monster to them. Then, I decided it must have been the result of some action of mine. And since they had taken me from my suicide, I decided I must be on trial for that, for I had become convinced this was some sort of galactic enquiry.

  ‘You are not on trial,’ Borth had assured me when I asked.

  Humanity then? I had guessed, but he would not answer. I decided that must be it – Earth was on trial and I was an example of my race. Poor Earth, I thought.

  I did not understand the trial procedure at all. Individuals of the Vaeri spoke in a sort of high oratory when they addressed those gathered in the dome, and their words were so abstract as to be nonsense.

  These alien rites were fascinating to begin with, then dull, then worrying; for as time passed, I began to fear for my own fate. Whether I was on trial or not, this strange enquiry centred somehow on me.

  Why, you might reasonably ask, should someone who had been quite content to abandon life altogether be concerned about anything that happened thereafter? But now that life was forced on me, I had rediscovered an interest in it.

  The end of the trial came quite without warning. One day Borth did not come, and another Vaeri brought me to the dome. Then Borth was brought there also and stood beside me. I had not previously thought of him as anything but my keeper, but now I saw that I had been wrong.

  ‘You, Borth Jesu H, chosen above many to study Creation, are charged with creating monsters,’ said one of the Vaeri.

  I was shocked to realise it was Borth who was on trial. But the mention of monsters puzzled me greatly. The Vaeri had called me a monster – were they saying Borth had created me?

  I did. Borth sent the words to my mind. I realised he had taken the question from my thoughts.

  ‘I do not believe my creations are monsters,’ Borth said aloud. ‘How could they be when I modelled them upon our own forms?’

  ‘You admit you made images of the Vaeri from Murmi clay, always intending to breathe life into them?’

  ‘I did,’ Borth said. ‘I do not regret it.’

  What is Murmi? I thought loudly, hoping Borth would hear.

  I hear, he sent.

  Then he told me this, in thought, so it came to me swiftly:

  There are many sorts of clay. At first, students of Creation are given Ramo to practise on – a coarse and short-lived clay which will hold no life. This is intended to develop dexterity and aesthetic taste. In time, we progress to Pya, a softer, finer clay that allows greater subtlety of form and develops delicacy of touch and restraint. Everything created of these clays is destroyed lest something imperfect accidentally be given lifebreath.

  Only in the final stages of study are students permitted the use of Murmi, an actual form of Porsoul. Of all the clays, only these two are dense and complex enough to contain and hold sentient life. Murmi starts out as Porsoul, but at some point before maturity, it is flawed and begins to decay. Use of it gives the students a feel for the real thing, but its flaw prevents it keeping hold of lifebreath. Whatever is formed of it will degenerate as the lifebreath dissipates. Used Murmi is taken far away and dropped onto a barren planet, and there, certain rites are performed to ensure that all potential for life is extinguished.

  ‘From the very beginning I was fascinated by the Murmi and its inability to hold lifebreath for more than a short while,’ Borth was saying aloud to his accusers. ‘The creations I made of it became more and more beautiful and elaborate as I attempted to induce the clay to cling harder to the lifebreath I put into it, but in every case my creations ceased after a time to function.

  ‘The more I thought of it, the more curious I became as to what this flaw would do to a life that bore it. How would an exquisite form react to the fading of lifebreath? How would it degenerate? How would it understand its degeneration? I wanted to try – to breathe lifebreath into my Murmi creations. I spoke of this desire to the other students and my teachers. They were horrified and I was forbidden to think of it.

  ‘I bided my time. I was a model student for a millenium or so, and only then did I dare volunteer to journey with a crew that disposed of Murmi. The load we had was unusable, of course, but I had some fresh Murmi in my pocket and in secret I spent many hours locked in my shiproom labouring over my creations. I made the most exquisite forms I had ever made, modelled on the Vaeri. Of course they were much tinier, for I had scant clay and nowhere to hide lifesized creatures. I did not bother with the wings, for they no longer served a purpose in my own kind. When I was finished, I wept to see how beautiful they were.

  ‘I called my creatures Ur-lings.’

  In human words that would be translated as Little People, Borth sent to me.

  ‘When we reached the place where the clay was to be thrown out, I pretended to be lost so that I could put my Ur-lings on the ground and breat
he life into them. Then I left.’

  ‘Did you ever return?’ one of the Vaeri asked.

  Borth inclined his head, having picked up my habit of using body language to enhance speech or thoughts.

  ‘Twice. I did not dare come again for fear I would be tracked. But the time I spent among the race arisen from my Ur-lings made me see the decadence and staleness of the Vaeri. The Ur-lings are neither smug nor complacent. Their lives contain pain and anger and sorrow, and they strive and yearn for beauty with every fibre of their beings. Life is infinitely more beautiful and precious, and even those who seek death, such as Awen-du, worship it as much as they fear it.’

  Of course, by now I knew that the name Borth had given me meant Forever, but only now did I understandwhy.

  It was your radio and television emissions and satellite launches that attracted the attention of the Vaeri at last, Borth sent to me.

  An expedition was sent and it was not difficult then to trace the source of the Murmi-based life forms back to Borth.

  I am charged with creating monsters, he sent, coming the full circle.

  What will happen if they find you guilty? I thought.

  I do not know. They will devise a punishment, I suppose.

  He did not look too worried. I suppose it is hard to worry about anything when you are immortal.

  ‘How can you have condemned these creatures to Murmi fate? Have you no guilt for the wrong you have done them?’ asked a Vaeri. ‘Porsoul is mentally programmed for immortality. By using Murmi instead of perfect Porsoul you have condemned your creations to futility and despair. It is cruelty beyond imagining to make creatures into whose essence is woven the understanding of immortality, but to make them from a clay which will not hold lifebreath eternally.’

  I felt a stab of pure terror as I understood at last what the trial was about. A dozen different bits of information slid into place. Porsoul was immortal. Murmi was an imperfect form of Porsoul which, though it could capture the lifeforce breathed into it by its creator, could not continue to hold it. Borth had created humanity of Murmi.

  In short, Borth Jesu H had given his precious creation mortality.

  ‘This monster race cannot be allowed to go on,’ said another of the Vaeri, and I felt sick.

  Borth spoke then, with greater eloquence than I had ever heard in his kind. So might a mother plead for the life of her baby.

  ‘I do not care what punishment you bestow on me,’ he said at last. ‘But these creatures I have made deserve to live. Come with me and move among them. You will see then . . .’

  ‘I have seen how they live and what they make of the little lives you have bestowed on them, Borth Jesu H,’ said a grave, stern voice. ‘These Uman are greedy and violent. They rape their world and one another. They dwell in poverty and squalor, in hunger and despair. They live for instant gratification and exist in terror of death.’

  ‘But that is the thing,’ Borth said excitedly. ‘Don’t you see? In spite of all that, they create, just as we do. They create beauty in their music and their words, in paintings and buildings and sculptures. They make for themselves a bittersweet immortality. Think of it! No other race we have created, creates!

  There was a long, strange silence at this.

  Borth rushed on. ‘It is their fear of death, and their knowledge of its inevitability, that gives them such transcendent power. When Awen-du jumped from that bridge, she thought death was truth. She was prepared to give up her short and precious life to learn this single truth. Would any of us do such a thing? Would we have the courage or the greatness? These Ur-lings have a fleeting second – a minute lightness between birth and death which is their lives – yet they exist like a nova exploding in the infinite darkness of space. Our lives are dim candles beside theirs, for we have no passion, and our creations are as cold and perfect and lifeless as we ourselves have become. When we gave up death, we forgot to use our wings. We forgot to fly. In giving my Ur-lings mortality, I gave them passion and beauty. I gave them love and hate and desire. I gave them wings.’

  I began to laugh then, for I saw that this was the truth I had spent my life searching for. That broke up the proceedings because the Vaeri, who do not laugh, thought I was having some sort of fit.

  The last time I saw Borth was as he waited for his sentence to be pronounced, for of course he had been found guilty.

  They are going to send me to Earth, his thoughts floated into my mind.

  Why? I thought fearfully, wondering if they would simply bomb the Earth and destroy both the creator and his creation.

  No, Borth sent. They cannot unmake. It is forbidden and has been since my people discovered immortality. They mean to expose me to sun crystal which causes Porsoul to become Murmi.

  I did not understand and he was forced to say it more plainly.

  I will be mortal there. They have elected to give me the gift of death. They have told me that I may move among my monsters and instruct them on the joys of death and mortality.

  I was aghast for him, but he seemed unafraid.

  I go uncaring. The Vaeri are a dead race – decadent and sterile. They became ghosts when they gave up death. If they saw your world and your people as I have, they would know that. Perhaps this is why they despise you so.

  What will they do to me?

  They will send you back as well. Borth hesitated. They mean to offer you immortality and, through you, humanity. They have discovered a way to reverse the process of degeneration.

  We stared at one another for a time, as the other Vaeri began to assemble.

  Good luck, I thought. Maybe I will see you on Earth.

  I do not think so, Borth sent. I wish you luck, Awen-du. And I hope immortality pleases you. But before you take what they offer, look upon the Vaeri and then upon your own race, and see who lives more sweetly.

  And his eyes asked a thing of me.

  I returned to Earth. Borth was right: I did not see him again. I took the pills the Vaeri gave me, and these gave me immortality; not constant immortality, because I am made of Murmi, but a temporary immortality which could be extended infinitely by taking one pill after another. These pills prevent the degeneration from progressing. My life was immortal only by their grace, but the Vaeri told me that any offspring I had would be of unflawed Porsoul, so long as I was taking the pills at the moment of conception, and that these children would bear the seed of immortality.

  Through me, humanity could grow to deathlessness.

  I wanted to think, so I travelled. I grew no older outwardly, but inwardly I aged hundreds of years as I went about trying to see what path death played in our lives, and whether immortality would heal the ills of humanity.

  In all that time, I let no man fertilise my ova and spawn a race of immortals. Whenever I saw something that made me consider it – a great man or woman dying, a great beauty fading – I thought of Borth’s face, and the cold, dead eyes of the Vaeri.

  Yet I could not resist it. I told myself I needed to live just a little longer to experience enough to ensure I would make the right decision.

  But the ages I lived began to weigh heavily, and with them came at last the truth of Borth’s words, for with immortality had come deadness to my soul . . . a numbness and an emptiness. Worst of all, sometimes, when I looked into the mirror, Vaeri eyes stared out at me, and I was chilled.

  So at last I did not take the pills, and now I grow old.

  Oh I pray that I am mad enough and brave enough to do what I know Borth wanted, and that is to die. I am still afraid of it. Though I am old and creaky and withered, life is sweet to me, it has a beauty that brings me to tears. Sometimes it has such radiance that it fills my soul and pains me sweetly.

  That is something the immortals can never know or feel.

  Wait. Before you go, there is one last thing. It is my theory that laughter, which the Vaeri never understood, is the answer humanity has evolved to cope with the gift of Borth Jesu H. Thus my own much-maligned flippancy is an answer to
the ultimate truths that I am privy to.

  Borth? Well, I have often wondered what he found among his monsters. There had been talk of setting him back in time for some technical reason or other, and of course I cannot help but wonder if, by some strange chance, his is the body buried underneath the tower in the field next to the cemetery.

  There is poetry in that thought.

  If it is Borth buried under there, the only thing that nags at me is a desire to know why his arm was thrown out. Perhaps at the last irrevocable second, like any mortal, he feared death and flung up his arm to his brothers, the gods, in a futile plea for mercy.

  Or maybe – and this is what I like to think – maybe, at that last minute, he felt the same great sweet sadness as I do to know he must lose his life and face the mystery of death, but his courage did not fail him. I picture him in my mind, lifting his arm and laughing as he gave his brothers the finger.

  Oh yes. It pleases me to think our creator died laughing. I am, you see, an incurable romantic, and I like endings of all kinds to come with a flourish.

  That is a very mortal thing to wish for. The Vaeri have no stories because they have no concept of endings – and stories must begin and end if they are to fly. But the Vaeri have forgotten how to use their wings. How dreary for them, poor things.

  THE PUMPKIN EATER

  I ride this day upon the Worldroad, alone, except for Courage, who rides on the pommel of my saddle fluffing his feathers. I did not dream of journeying thus as a child. Maeve told me that women did not travel unaccompanied, especially not beautiful princesses who must wait for their prince to come for them.

  Not that I am a princess any longer, nor beautiful enough to make them catch their breath at the sight of me.

  I wear the trews and knee boots of a man, and the wind blows my hair wild about my shoulders. I have split ends and chafed lips and my legs and arms are muscular and strong. I have left curling tongs and perfume and silk behind.