At one point, a voice came to her out of a tree at a place where the green swirled darkly within it.
“Virginia Tallent, you have traveled far.”
“That is true,” she responded, slowing, “and the foliage here seems lusher than usual, for the season. And I’ve seen more hunting wilches.”
“Excessive rains, which favor the leaf-eating gronhers. They multiply quickly, as do the wilches who eat them. Soon the wilches will reach a point where their dancing begins. There will follow a southward migration on the part of the dire-cats, who prey on them.”
“Why southward?”
“When the gronhers’ numbers dwindle they will seek the herd-mice, which will soon be numerous in the south.”
“Why?”
“The grains they feed on are even now in unusual development, because of nutrient-bearing flooding earlier this year.”
“…And the land, from the rains?” she asked.
There was no reply. The green flame had ceased to dance.
She smiled and walked on. Clouds gathered and blocked the sunlight. There followed a low rumble of thunder. The trail bore her left, its steepness diminishing. A few drops of rain spattered against fronds. There came a flash of lightning. She hurried.
The full downpour caught her in a largely open area where the trail had widened as it neared the top of the plateau. She wisely avoided a grove of tall trees, choosing instead the less complete but safer shelter offered by some broad-leafed shrubs that partly intersected an outcropping of stone.
Seated, in a leal-fringed cave beneath the shrubs, she watched the water become a beaded curtain about her shelter, wiped occasional droplets from her brow, watched a stone in a less sheltered area to her right darken, saw its surface become a flow of glass and shadow.
As she watched, the stone seemed to form features, eyes focused in her direction. The dark, wet lips moved:
“Virginia,” it said, “the main erosion occurs upon eastern slopes, partly as a function of wind direction, partly from the angles and drainage of the slopes themselves, predicated upon events past.”
“Markon!” she said.
“Yes.” The stone changed shape now, growing into a life-sized statue as the genius loci continued their conversation. “The wind direction is determined partly by temperature differentials between this and six major and eleven minor areas, the coastal pair and that containing Lake
Triad being most prominent. Have you had a fruitful journey, thus far?”
“Indeed,” she replied. “I’ve always found your realm particularly fascinating.”
“Why, thank you. What of my neighbor Kordalis’s?”
“It’s interesting. But the rapid spread of wildfire vine tends to crash the botanical cycles over-frequently.”
“I feel it is because of the floral coloration. She is over-fond of yellow.”
“I never considered it from the standpoint of aesthetic preference on the part of a genius loci.”
“Oh, yes. It is a consideration you should not neglect among the younger ones.”
“The older ones are beyond that sort of thing?”
“No. But you will, in general, find them to have developed better judgment. On the other hand, you will find some whose taste never improves.”
“Would you care to name some of these?”
“Certainly not. That would be very petty of me. I am sure you are capable of forming your own opinions.”
She smiled and wiped her face on her sleeve.
“Of course,” she agreed.
The features flowed again.
“There is a need—” Markon stated, and the face began to fade. Then, “No. My world will hardly be destroyed if I do not respond,” it said. The expression returned to the stone, smiling faintly, briefly. “I see you so seldom, Virginia. How have you been?”
“Very well, thanks,” she replied. “And from the look of the land, the same might be said for you.”
The stone swayed forward and back. The being had nodded.
“No epic battles with my neighboring spirits of place,” he answered, “if that is what you mean. Those days seem very remote, a thing of beginnings.”
“I never even heard of them.”
“They are not a part of common knowledge, now I think on it. So that could not have been your true question.”
“No, it was not. But I am fascinated by it. This must have to do with the transition from pure programming to independent evolution in Virtu, both near its establishment. I’d never heard of the wars of the genü loci, though.”
“I do not understand this talk of something called Virtu. There is only the world. What else can there be? And yes, we fought for control of our pieces of it in the days after creation, when the place was not yet fully formed. There were alliances, betrayals, glorious victories, ignominious defeats. They were great days, but in truth I am glad that they are gone. One can grow tired of living heroically. True, individual feuds and vendettas do still sometimes occur, but these are as nothing beside the conflicts of the unsolid days. I have not engaged in one for some time, and that is fine with me.”
“Fascinating. Has anyone official—such as myself—ever recorded these matters?”
“I can only speak for myself, and I have not given this information. The others of my acquaintance tend to be as close as me, however, when dealing with mobile sentients.”
“Then why do you tell me?”
“I have known you for some time, Virginia, and you told me of your blindness and paralysis from an untreatable neurological condition. I don’t suppose you speak often of it, either. It is good that you have two bodies.”
“Well, I’d rather be here than there. But it might be good for you to have your reminiscences of those times remembered, to preserve them.”
“Nothing is lost so long as one mind remembers.”
“It might be good to share them. Design theoreticians could learn a lot from them.”
“I am not here to teach them. I am no friend of the designers.”
“It might help them to do better jobs in the future.”
“I do not want any jobs done in my territory. Or anyplace else, for that matter. They had their chance. They are done. They are not welcome here.”
“I only meant it as an increase of general knowledge.”
“Enough!” The face twisted into a scowl. “I would talk of it no more!”
“As you would, Markon.”
“Yes. As I would. Shall I summon my elemental servants to dance for you?”
“That would be nice.”
Water rose from the ground and met the waters falling from the sky. They formed themselves into glistening bodies, faceless, sexless. Beside them, heavier figures, of mud, rose and took form. Winds began to lash the leaves. From openings in the earth flames leaped up, began to sway, to bifurcate. The winds picked up numerous bits of detritus, formed it into debris devils.
“How strange and how lovely,” she said as the figures came loose from their points of origin and began to move about.
“Few, if any, of your kind have seen it,” he said. “Come sit by me and watch. I will make it drier and warmer here.”
She rose and went to seat herself beside him. The figures began to move more quickly. Shadows danced within them.
Arthur Eden returned from a long sojourn in Virtu. Departing the church’s transfer facility, he took public transportation through a chaotic series of changes about town, coming at last to one of his homes. Partway there, his stomach began to rumble, active again following its long rest. The first thing he did on entering his apartment was to order a meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fruit juice, coffee. As his kitchen unit labored to comply, he stripped and stepped into his shower. There, amid sizzling jets, he relived the week’s apprenticeship—called “claiming the program”—a simple exercise in the manipulation of local reality required of all initiates in the lowest grade of priesthood. He recalled the mental movement, the reaching, the capture of forms, the acceptance of spaces… It had been fun, playing the ritualized, programmed games. No way to lose, of course. Everyone who participated became a minor adept by the course’s end. He would have to give it an entire chapter, as a reinforcement of a mindset. Presumably, the higher ones functioned in the same fashion. It didn’t really explain the rare carryovers. But then, they might have involved latent psi powers stimulated by all the attention. The faithful were required to report such powers’ appearance under pain of excommunication for noncompliance.