Penumbra - Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
The Brisevent Rispa looked up at the building before him and wondered what he would find inside. So this was where they had imprisoned his kinsman. Or perhaps where Anjh had imprisoned himself. It would not be surprising if the events of the past months had transformed the bright, glorious youth he had known into the embittered, dark-souled man of whom he had heard rumour - he had glimpsed a hint of that after the death of Biyonne. Rispa had come to the city the previous day and met with several Prydain agents before finding an inn for the night. What he had learned from them troubled him profoundly. There was no doubt that Anjh was alive and residing in this house with Jaithlym, the powerful woman who headed the Syndicate. However, under the veneer of that reassuring news lurked a disquieting theme - whispers about a mysterious happening in the main hospital and intemperate outbursts overheard from within private rooms. The Brisevant was too old to believe all the gossip that came to his ears, but these reports, confirming as they did some of his own suspicions, could not be altogether discounted. Nor could the other rumors scuttling through the city streets like the omnipresent stray animals that always exist on the fringes of human society. Those rumors spoke of a dead man miraculously returned to life by the prayers and intercessions of certain holy priests and now completing his apotheosis before he would emerge as the savior of the common folk and introduce an age of prosperity and food enough for all. These tales, less believable, but more believed, were genuinely troubling.
Rispa mentally straightened his shoulders and, reminding himself that he must not prejudge and that his purpose here was to take his injured kinsman home, marched up the steps and rapped imperiously.
A saffron skinned servant opened the door at his knock and with the hissing obsequiousness of its kind, led the Brisevent to the main salon, offered refreshment and begged him to wait until the Master could be summoned.
The figure that shortly thereafter appeared framed in the doorway was a stranger to Rispa. The cane clutched in the black-gloved left hand was not unexpected but spectacles? ... And this man was far too old to be Anjh - where was the radiance, the gallantry?
“Anjh?”
“I am Anjh, Brisevent Rispa.” The voice was as harsh and old as the face.
“What have they done to you? You... you are extinguished.” Rispa burst out. He had not intended to be so blunt but nothing, not even the knowledge that years had passed since they had last met, had prepared him for the man he saw.
“They have done what you see,” the answer was uninflected, flat. “I have been saved from the reeking maw of death and resurrected to walk this earth as an immortal, a superhuman complete with eternal spare parts. If you like, I can show you the external portions the Ordmun experts replaced, although doubtless you can identify them for yourself. The internal ones must forever remain arcane, a sacred mystery.” A sardonic smile crossed his lips but not his eyes, which remained bleak and dark behind the lenses. “I have become Anjh the Immortal in truth as well as in title. Have you no respect for this Ur-human, this miracle of...” he broke off with a gasp. “You say I am extinguished; you are wrong. I am burning... do you think I want this... this existence? Your very presence shames me; I should not be alive to greet you here. I am Prydain and should have died on the Mountain redeeming my honor. That was what I tried - what I wanted - to do. You should be bidding farewell to my soul instead of observing my disgrace. Why are you here? Why have you come to witness my defeat?”
“My dear child, what can I say to you? I am not here to shame you but to rescue you. I’ve come to bring you home - to the place where you’ll find peace and can heal and plan for your future.”
“I am no longer a child. I am a man and I have no future. ‘My only wish is death in battle defending my honor and ending like my forebears.’” He mockingly recited the formula.
“No, no,” the familiar old voice soothed. “You’ve performed your service to Junonia and your race; your honor is intact if ever it was questioned - come home and begin the second half of your life, the Voltefase. We need you, Anjh. We are few and cannot afford to lose you. I remember watching you grow up and knowing even then that you would be among the great ones of our people. I’ve always meant you to replace me when I die. Come home now and start to ready yourself for this office. You’re needed.”
“Everybody needs me for something they have ‘planned for years’, some sort of symbol, a token. Who needs me as Anjh? You’re worse than the Lamasoni; they’re blatant in the way they command my services. You hide your intent with honeyed words. Have you ever thought that maybe everything we believe is wrong? That you are wooing me with falsehoods to serve a decaying culture? That we might be mistaken in our ways, in our very concept of the proper way to live? We celebrate our courage and honor and glorify the perfection of mind and body and what are we? What kind of human does our culture produce?”
“Damned fine heroic ones; ones like you, Anjh.” Rispa was passionate in his conviction.
“Look at me, old man. Just look at what I’ve become. Is this the Prydain ideal - this wretched, half mechar’ monster who has stayed too long a boy playing soldier? Is this what we expect from our race?”
“You’re not a monster - you’re your father’s son - a man whose talents as a Warrior were so great that everything else could wait. But now it’s time for you to come home and fulfill your destiny and what might have been his. You are the ideal of what we wish for our youth.”
Anjh struck out with his cane in a fury. “You don’t even try to understand. I’m the last man on Junonia to be held up as a role model. You think you’re praising me when you call me my father’s son - Rispa, I killed my father, left him on that battlefield to die. I’m no hero and you want me to come back and prepare to lead the young ones; me - look at me, damn you - I’m this half-thing, this creation of the Ordmun. We Prydain live our lives for battle and turn to peace only when we’re too old or too damaged to hold a sword. Oh, we give lip service to the idea that we can divide our lives so neatly into two halves and forsake our bloody ways when we choose. And we worship the perfection of the human body while we place as models before our children the broken, maimed and hideous relicts of our devotion to war. I’m not blameless; I never claimed to be. But something changed five months ago when I met Archaos and lost... Listen to me, Brisevent, I am no longer the Anjh you knew. I died on that mountain; I saw myself die and now I live and have become something that is no longer truly human. I’m something else now; I don’t yet know what I’ve become but I know I can’t go back to the world of the Prydain and fit neatly into the place you’ve held for me. I have changed, have been changed by the machinations of the Lamasoni and this pseudo-life they’ve inflicted on me. I’ve been defeated twice - I, who had never known anything but victory... I am broken, the remains of what I was - unfit for both the life I led and the life I might have chosen - unfit for life itself... Your errand is useless and you might as well go back to Ban Khatour.” He limped to a chair and dropped into it with an air of weary hopelessness that tore at the heart of his Elder.
“You’re not well but you’re no parricide,” the Brisevent leaned toward him, his hand raised in a gesture of healing. “Your father died the way he wanted to die, in the middle of a battle with his sword in his hand. Come home and let us restore you. We can help you reconcile...”
“I don’t need any more restoration - if anything, I’ve had too much; I know what I have to do. Just leave me alone. There are too many advisors, too many chattering around me. Every time I’m beginning to accept this loathsome mechar’,” he lashed his cane viciously against his left leg, “I’m reminded by someone or something that I’m only half-human, a freak, a monster.”
“Never a monster, never a freak, Anjh. But part of what you say is right; you are something new in the world. I was on Ban Khatour a few days ago looking at the youngest of our race. There are so few that I was praying for Prydain to become more animal, less human in the hope that we might reproduce more efficiently. Our race is dying - we are not replacing ourselves; each generation is smaller than the one before. We have taught our children to be brave but not prudent and are spending our human capital to earn our keep. I’ve just begun to understand how stupid this is. Alone among the peoples of Junonia, we’re willing to risk our lives for something not vital to our survival and to ignore the universal ethos of this planet - the value of life above all else.”
“And the point of this meditation? It does have a point - you aren’t just talking to fill the silence?” Anjh sneered.
“There’s a glimmer of light that makes me dream of salvation for our race. You are a miracle! You’re proof that death in battle need not be the end, that we can save our young Warriors and bring them home to give us the children we need so urgently. If we’re willing to accept these new techniques, I can see a day when we’re increasing in numbers, when there’s time for the birth-debt to be paid by every individual,” he was growing excited at the thought of an overflowing crèche and the assured persistence of the race he served. “You’re the first of a new breed of men. You’re right - we must make some changes - not the ones you thought but the ones you’re pioneering in your body with your boldness and courage. You’re the torch leading us to our destiny, to our fulfillment. Anjh, through your suffering you bring us hope.”
Anjh struggled to his feet, aghast, “Stop! What are you saying? You can’t mean this. What do you think I am - some sort of divine sacrifice? Look again. Open your eyes. This isn’t hope; it’s desperation. Would you endorse this blasphemous perversion of science, this mockery of humanity? I’m neither bold nor brave - I’m trapped and you’re out of your mind. This isn’t Prydain thinking. We’re scholars, not technicians, warriors, not engineers. The perfection of mind and body is our creed however poorly we honor it in practice.”
“And we’re dying as a people. You don’t know how few are in the infant crèche. If we could save just some of our fallen warriors until they could pay the birth-debt at least once...”
“Oh, yes, that much-discussed birth-debt. Don’t fear; I’ll do my duty before I finish this. I’m still that much of a Prydain.”
“But not enough to keep on living.” Rispa had not intended to voice his misgiving at their first meeting but again his dismay had betrayed him. “I had heard that you had chosen to abandon our principles but couldn’t believe that you would repudiate your upbringing so far as to become Thanamant. Why, Anjh?” There was silence as the unspeakable word hung between them.
“I’m surprised to hear you use that word to me. But if you know that much, the reason should be obvious to one who has survived as long and well as you,” Anjh finally answered savagely. “Could you continue to live the way I must? Could you drag this grotesque collection of parts around when you had known the freedom to... I cannot live like this, Brisevent. In my dreams, I run and wrestle and watch hawks surfing the sky - then I wake and am this clumsy, lurching, half-blind, half-human...” Anjh lowered his head and turned away from his former mentor, his face twisting.
The older Prydain was silent, hushed by the intensity of his protégé’s pain. His instinct was to reach out and actually embrace the suffering man before him. But that was not their way and he could not violate the habits of a lifetime. After a long pause, he found his voice again.
“Anjh, come home and let us help you. You’re not alone; we’re a taciturn, self-contained race, true, but we’re not unfeeling, not cold, not indifferent to our own. You can have time there to decide on what you want to do now that your Warrior days are past...”
The answer was cold and distant, “I do not agree with you. I shall continue to be what I was until I find what I seek.”
“You’re in denial, my son. You know you can’t be a Warrior any more. Use that mind we took such care to train. It’s time for you to explore other opportunities. Come back to Ban Khatour with me. You belong where you started. We can give you the privacy to rest and heal, to make the decisions you must make. We can protect you, give you the space to...”
“Protect me!” It was a furious shout. “You want to protect me? I am Anjh the Immortal - I'm a Warrior and I don’t cower behind old men... I’ve had enough of this,” he struck the floor viciously with his cane, as he hobbled across the room. “I’m a Thanamant. I don’t want healing and advice; I don’t want glory or medals or the accolades that ‘a grateful nation’ can heap on me. My want is simple; I want to die and I did die and I was forced to live again. It’s intolerable - Brisevant, I owe respect to your position and your age but I am no longer yours to command or counsel. My life is my own and I’ll dispose of it as I will... Courtesy dictates that I permit you to stay as long as you like but I don’t want to see you again so don’t try. You will not sway me... Wait here, I’ll send a servant to show you to your room.” Then he was gone, closing the door behind him with ominous control.
The Brisevent Rispa hunched in his chair for a prolonged time, thinking on what he had learned. It was far more dangerous than he had feared; his former student had been driven into an abyss of self-delusion that rendered him unreachable at this time. Anjh and Biyonne - so alike in their reactions - he felt confirmed in his doubts about the psychological stability of the genetic strain that had produced two such similar men. Was that line truly predisposed toward despair as well as audacity? At what point did outrageous courage become suicidal?
If the taint was truly in the blood then all the Prydain strictures on breeding had been useless; the very thing those constraints had been designed to circumvent had crept into the lineage. Rispa's mind shied from the memory of the word he had thrown at the younger man and he could not even say it again to himself.
The path to understanding Anjh had become increasingly convoluted with so many by-ways leading to the same destination and no indication as to which was the most direct. It was true that not every Prydain sent out to be a Warrior came back to adopt another way of life. Some few each generation felt that they had found their destined career in the world of battles and war. But was that what had happened here or was Anjh stubbornly clinging to his position because of his infatuation with death?
Was Anjh what he had now become because of what his father had been and why did he continue to insist that he had been responsible for his sire’s death? That illusion should have been dispelled at the time it formed, along with so much else in the isolated treatment center on Ban Khatour.
Anjh and Biyonne - it had been an error to send the son to serve alongside the father. Rispa had often wished in the past years that he had not made that choice. But it had seemed so logical, such a rare opportunity. Now he was half convinced that it was the physical proximity of the two that had created the possible madness in them both. And he also feared that Anjh had begun to remember what had happened after he had been carried from the scene of his father’s death and what had been done in the ensuing weeks. If so, no wonder he was reacting as he was with this lethal combination of nihilism and alienation. The Brisevant knew that he had been the sole individual most accountable for the steps taken after Anjh's collapse more than fourteen years ago and pondered how much of the responsibility for this new debacle he must bear.
With a sigh, he set those thoughts aside and made his plans - he would stay for a few weeks and avoid personal contact while working through others in the household. He would somehow find a way to persuade Anjh to relinquish this passion for death and to bring his tormented protégé back to his real responsibilities to himself and his race. At least, he saw no signs that Anjh was heedful of the deity rumors - or that he had even heard of them.