Eleanor Arnason (tribute page <www.tc.umn.edu/~d-lena/ Eleanor%20&%20trog.html>) lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She has been publishing interesting, ambitious SF since the 1970s, but her major work began appearing and drawing attention only in the 1990s, beginning with the novels A Woman of the Iron People (1991) and Ring of Swords (1993). Since then she has published a number of stories, most of them novellas, set either in the Hwarhath universe of Ring of Swords, or in the Lydia Duluth series. Her work is notable for its political subtexts, its feminist spin without feminist rhetoric, and investigation of gender roles. The Goxhat are an alien race in the Duluth universe whose individual bodies (only vaguely humanoid—they have four eyes, etc.), some males, some females, some neuter, together form gestalt or group personalities. Goxhat are really weird, but in their inner lives quite human, and often funny.
“Knapsack Poems” appeared in Asimov’s and has only Goxhat characters, with the central character a traveling poet whose selves continually argue and discuss and have sex, who is poor and willing to sell poetic praise for food or money. Many things human are called into question in this amusing tale as an alien poet just trying to get by reinvents something humans already have.
Within this person of eight bodies, thirty-two eyes, and the usual number of orifices and limbs, resides a spirit as restless as gossamer on wind. In youth, I dreamed of fame as a merchant-traveler. In later years, realizing that many of my parts were prone to motion sickness, I thought of scholarship or accounting. But I lacked the Great Determination that is necessary for both trades. My abilities are spontaneous and brief, flaring and vanishing like a falling star. For me to spend my life adding numbers or looking through dusty documents would be like “lighting a great hall with a single lantern bug” or “watering a great garden with a drop of dew.”
Finally, after consulting the care-givers in my crèche, I decided to become a traveling poet. It’s a strenuous living and does not pay well, but it suits me.
Climbing through the mountains west of Ibri, I heard a wishik call, then saw the animal, its wings like white petals, perched on a bare branch.
“Is that tree flowering
So late in autumn?
Ridiculous idea!
I long for dinner.”
One of my bodies recited the poem. Another wrote it down, while still others ranged ahead, looking for signs of habitation. As a precaution, I carried cudgels as well as pens and paper. One can never be sure what will appear in the country west of Ibri. The great poet Raging Fountain died there of a combination of diarrhea and malicious ghosts. Other writers, hardly less famous, have been killed by monsters or bandits, or, surviving these, met their end at the hands of dissatisfied patrons.
The Bane of Poets died before my birth. Its1 ghost or ghosts offered Raging Fountain the fatal bowl of porridge. But other patrons still remain “on steep slopes and in stony dales.”
“Dire the telling
Of patrons in Ibri:
Bone-breaker lurks
High on a mountain.
Skull-smasher waits
In a shadowy valley.
Better than these
The country has only
Grasper, Bad-bargain,
And Hoarder-of-Food.”
Why go to such a place, you may be wondering? Beyond Ibri’s spiny mountains lie the wide fields of Greater and Lesser Ib, prosperous lands well-known for patronage of the arts.
Late in the afternoon, I realized I would find no refuge for the night. Dark snow-clouds hid the hills in front of me. Behind me, low in the south, the sun shed pale light. My shadows, long and many-limbed, danced ahead of me on the rutted road.
My most poetic self spoke:
“The north is blocked
By clouds like boulders.
A winter sun
Casts shadows in my way.”
Several of my other selves frowned. My scribe wrote the poem down with evident reluctance.
“Too obvious,” muttered a cudgel-carrier.
Another self agreed. “Too much like Raging Fountain in his/her mode of melancholy complaint.”
Far ahead, a part of me cried alarm. I suspended the critical discussion and hurried forward in a clump, my clubs raised and ready for use.
Soon, not even breathless, I stopped at a place I knew by reputation: the Tooth River. Wide and shallow, it ran around pointed stones, well-exposed this time of year and as sharp as the teeth of predators. On the far side of the river were bare slopes that led toward cloudy mountains. On the near side of the river, low cliffs cast their shadows over a broad shore. My best scout was there, next to a bundle of cloth. The scout glanced up, saw the rest of me, and—with deft fingers—undid the blanket folds.
Two tiny forms lay curled at the blanket’s center. A child of one year, holding itself in its arms.
“Alive?” I asked myself.
The scout crouched closer. “One body is and looks robust. The other body—” my scout touched it gently “—is cold.”
Standing among myself, I groaned and sighed. There was no problem understanding what had happened. A person had given birth. Either the child had been unusually small, or the other parts had died. For some reason, the parent had been traveling alone. Maybe he/she/it had been a petty merchant or a farmer driven off the land by poverty. If not these, then a wandering thief or someone outlawed for heinous crimes. A person with few resources. In any case, he/she/it had carried the child to this bitter place, where the child’s next-to- last part expired.
Imagine standing on the river’s icy edge, holding a child who had become a single body. The parent could not bear to raise an infant so incomplete! What parent could? One did no kindness by raising such a cripple to be a monster among ordinary people.
Setting the painful burden down, the parent crossed the river.
I groaned a second time. My most poetic self said:
“Two bodies are not enough;
One body is nothing.”
The rest of me hummed agreement. The poet added a second piece of ancient wisdom:
“Live in a group
Or die.”
I hummed a second time.
The scout lifted the child from its blanket. “It’s female.”
The baby woke and cried, waving her four arms, kicking her four legs, and urinating. My scout held her as far away as possible. Beyond doubt, she was a fine, loud, active mite! But incomplete. “Why did you wake her?” asked a cudgel-carrier. “She should be left to die in peace.”
“No,” said the scout. “She will come with me.”
“Me! What do you mean by me?” my other parts cried.
There is neither art nor wisdom in a noisy argument. Therefore, I will not describe the discussion that followed as night fell. Snowflakes drifted from the sky—slowly at first, then more and more thickly. I spoke with the rudeness people reserve for themselves in privacy; and the answers I gave myself were sharp indeed. Words like pointed stones, like the boulders in Tooth River, flew back and forth. Ah! The wounds I inflicted and suffered! Is anything worse than internal dispute?
The scout would not back down. She had fallen in love with the baby, as defective as it was. The cudgel-bearers, sturdy males, were outraged. The poet and the scribe, refined neuters, were repulsed. The rest of me was female and a bit more tender.
I had reached the age when fertile eggs were increasingly unlikely. In spite of my best efforts, I had gained neither fame nor money. What respectable goxhat would mate with a vagabond like me? What crèche would offer to care for my offspring? Surely this fragment of a child was better than nothing.
“No!” said my males and neuters. “This is not a person! One body alone can never know togetherness or integration!”
But my female selves edged slowly toward the scout’s opinion. Defective the child certainly was. Still, she was alive and goxhat, her darling little limbs waving fiercely and her darling mouth making noises that would shame a monster.
Most likely, she would die. The rest of her had. Better that she die in someone’s arms, warm and comfortable, than in the toothy mouth of a prowling predator. The scout rewrapped the child in the blanket.
It was too late to ford the river. I made camp under a cliff, huddling together for warmth, my arms around myself, the baby in the middle of the heap I made.
When morning came, the sky was clear. Snow sparkled everywhere. I rose, brushed myself off, gathered my gear, and crossed the river. The water was low, as I expected this time of year, but ice-cold. My feet were numb by the time I reached the far side. My teeth chattered on every side like castanets. The baby, awakened by the noise, began to cry. The scout gave her a sweet cake. That stopped the crying for a while.
At mid-day, I came in sight of a keep. My hearts lifted with hope. Alas! Approaching it, I saw the walls were broken.
The ruination was recent. I walked through one of the gaps and found a courtyard, full of snowy heaps. My scouts spread out and investigated. The snow hid bodies, as I expected. Their eyes were gone, but most of the rest remained, preserved by cold and the season’s lack of bugs.
“This happened a day or two ago,” my scouts said. “Before the last snow, but not by much. Wishik found them and took what they could, but didn’t have time—before the storm—to find other predators and lead them here. This is why the bodies are still intact. The wishik can pluck out eyes, but skin is too thick for them to penetrate. They need the help of other animals, such as hirg.” One of the scouts crouched by a body and brushed its rusty back hair. “I won’t be able to bury these. There are too many.”
“How many goxhat are here?” asked my scribe, taking notes.
“It’s difficult to say for certain. Three or four, I suspect, all good-sized. A parent and children would be my guess.”
I entered the keep building and found more bodies. Not many. Most of the inhabitants had fallen in the courtyard. There was a nursery with scattered toys, but no children.
“Ah! Ah!” I cried, reflecting on the briefness of life and the frequency with which one encounters violence and sorrow.
My poet said:
“Broken halls
and scattered wooden words.
How will the children
learn to read and write?” 2
Finally I found a room with no bodies or toys, nothing to remind me of mortality. I lit a fire and settled for the night. The baby fussed. My scout cleaned her, then held her against a nursing bud—for comfort only; the scout had no milk. The baby sucked. I ate my meager rations. Darkness fell. My thirty-two eyes reflected firelight. After a while, a ghost arrived. Glancing up, I saw it in the doorway. It looked quite ordinary: three goxhat bodies with rusty hair.
“Who are you?” one of my scouts asked.
“The former owner of this keep, or parts of her. My name was Content-in-Solitude; and I lived here with three children, all lusty and numerous.—Don’t worry.”
My cudgel-carriers had risen, cudgels in hand.
“I’m a good ghost. I’m still in this world because my death was so recent and traumatic. As soon as I’ve gathered myself together, and my children have done the same, we’ll be off to a better place.3
“I stopped here to tell you our names, so they will be remembered.”
“Content-in-Solitude,” muttered my scribe, writing.
“My children were Virtue, Vigor, and Ferric Oxide. Fine offspring! They should have outlived me. Our killer is Bent Foot, a bandit in these mountains. He took my grandchildren to raise as his own, since his female parts—all dead now—produced nothing satisfactory. Mutant children with twisted feet and nasty dispositions! No good will come of them; and their ghosts will make these mountains worse than ever. Tell my story, so others may be warned.”
“Yes,” my poet said in agreement. The rest of me hummed.
For a moment, the three bodies remained in the doorway. Then they drew together and merged into one. “You see! It’s happening! I am becoming a single ghost! Well, then. I’d better be off to find the rest of me, and my children, and a better home for all of us.”
The rest of the night was uneventful. I slept well, gathered around the fire, warmed by its embers and my bodies’ heat. If I had dreams, I don’t remember them. At dawn, I woke. By sunrise, I was ready to leave. Going out of the building, I discovered three hirg in the courtyard: huge predators with shaggy, dull-brown fur. Wishik fluttered around them as they tore into the bodies of Content and her children. I took one look, then retreated, leaving the keep by another route.
That day passed in quiet travel. My poet spoke no poetry. The rest of me was equally silent, brooding on the ruined keep and its ghost.
I found no keep to shelter me that night or the next or the next. Instead, I camped out. My scout fed the baby on thin porridge. It ate and kept the food down, but was becoming increasingly fretful and would not sleep unless the scout held it to a nursing bud. Sucking on the dry knob of flesh, it fell asleep.
“I don’t mind,” said the scout. “Though I’m beginning to worry. The child needs proper food.”
“Better to leave it by the way,” a male said. “Death by cold isn’t a bad ending.”
“Nor death by dehydration,” my other male added.
The scout looked stubborn and held the child close.
Four days after I left the ruined keep, I came to another building, this one solid and undamaged.
My scribe said, “I know the lord here by reputation. She is entirely female and friendly to the womanly aspects of a person. The neuter parts she tolerates. But she doesn’t like males. Her name is The Testicle Straightener.”
My cudgel-carriers shuddered. The scribe and poet looked aloof, as they inevitably did in such situations. Cleareyed and rational, free from sexual urges, they found the rest of me a bit odd.
The scout carrying the baby said, “The child needs good food and warmth and a bath. For that matter, so do I.”
Gathering myself together, I strode to the gate and knocked. After several moments, it swung open. Soldiers looked out. There were two of them: one tall and gray, the other squat and brown. Their bodies filled the entrance, holding spears and axes. Their eyes gleamed green and yellow.
“I am a wandering poet, seeking shelter for the night. I bring news from the south, which your lord might find useful.”
The eyes peered closely, then the soldiers parted—gray to the left, brown to the right—and let me in.
Beyond the gate was a snowy courtyard. This one held no
bodies. Instead, the snow was trampled and urine-marked. A living place! Though empty at the moment, except for the two soldiers who guarded the gate.
I waited in an anxious cluster. At length, a servant arrived and looked me over. “You need a bath and clean clothes. Our lord is fastidious and dislikes guests who stink. Come with me.”
I followed the servant into the keep and down a flight of stairs. Metal lamps were fastened to the walls. Most were dark, but a few shone, casting a dim light. The servant had three sturdy bodies, all covered with black hair.
Down and down. The air grew warm and moist. A faint, distinctive aroma filled it.
“There are hot springs in this part of Ibri,” the servant said. “This keep was built on top of one; and there is a pool in the basement, which always steams and smells.”
Now I recognized the aroma: rotten eggs.
We came to a large room, paved with stone and covered by a broad, barrel vault. Metal lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains. As was the case with the lamps on the stairway, most were dark. But a few flickered dimly. I could see the bathing pool: round and carved from bedrock. Steps went down into it. Wisps of steam rose.
“Undress,” said the servant. “I’ll bring soap and towels.”
I complied eagerly. Only my scout hesitated, holding the baby.
“I’ll help you with the mite,” said my scribe, standing knee-deep in hot water.
The scout handed the baby over and undressed.
Soon I was frolicking in the pool, diving and spouting. Cries of joy rang in the damp, warm room. Is anything better than a hot bath after a journey?
The scout took the baby back and moved to the far side of the pool. When the servant returned, the scout sank down, holding the baby closely, hiding it in shadow. Wise mite, it did not cry!
The rest of me got busy, scrubbing shoulders and backs. Ah, the pleasure of warm lather!
Now and then, I gave a little yip of happiness. The servant watched with satisfaction, his/her/its arms piled high with towels.
On the far side of the pool, my best scout crouched, nursing the babe on a dry bud and watching the servant with hooded eyes.
At last, I climbed out, dried off, and dressed. In the confusion—there was a lot of me—the scout managed to keep the baby concealed. Why, I did not know, but the scout was prudent and usually had a good reason for every action, though parts of me still doubted the wisdom of keeping the baby. There would be time to talk all of this over, when the servant was gone.
He/she/it led me up a new set of stairs. The climb was long. The servant entertained me with the following story.
The keep had a pulley system, which had been built by an ingenious traveling plumber. This lifted buckets of hot water from the spring to a tank on top of the keep. From there the water descended through metal pipes, carried by the downward propensity that is innate in water. The pipes heated every room.
“What powers the pulley system?” my scribe asked, notebook in hand.
“A treadmill,” said the servant.
“And what powers the treadmill?”
“Criminals and other people who have offended the lord. No keep in Ibri is more comfortable,” the servant continued with pride. “This is what happens when a lord is largely or entirely female. As the old proverb says, male bodies give a person forcefulness. Neuter bodies give thoughtfulness and clarity of vision. But nurture and comfort come from a person’s female selves.”
Maybe, I thought. But were the people in the treadmill comfortable?
The servant continued the story. The plumber had gone east to Ib and built other heated buildings: palaces, public baths, hotels, hospitals, and crèches. In payment for this work, several of the local lords mated with the plumber; and the local crèches vied to raise the plumber’s children, who were numerous and healthy.
“A fine story, with a happy ending,” I said, thinking of my fragment of a child, nursing on the scout’s dry bud. Envy, the curse of all artists and artisans, roiled in my hearts. Why had I never won the right to lay fertile eggs? Why were my purses empty? Why did I have to struggle to protect my testes and to stay off treadmills, while this plumber—surely not a better person than I—enjoyed fame, honor, and fertility?
The guest room was large and handsome, with a modern wonder next to it: a defecating closet. Inside the closet, water came from the wall in two metal pipes, which ended in faucets. “Hot and cold,” said the servant, pointing. Below the faucets was a metal basin, decorated with reliefs of frolicking goxhat. Two empty buckets stood next to the basin.
The servant said, “If you need to wash something, your hands or feet or any other part, fill the basin with water. Use the buckets to empty the basin; and after you use the defecating throne, empty the buckets down it. This reduces the smell and gets rid of the dirty water. As I said, our lord is fastidious; and we have learned from her example. The plumber helped, by providing us with so much water.
“I’ll wait in the hall. When you’re ready to meet the lord, I’ll guide you to her.”
“Thank you,” said my scribe, always courteous.
I changed into clean clothing, the last I had, and put bardic crowns on my heads.4 Each crown came from a different contest, though all were minor. I had never won a really big contest. Woven of fine wool, with brightly colored tassels hanging down, the crowns gave me an appearance of dignity. My nimble-fingered scouts unpacked my instruments: a set of chimes, a pair of castanets and a bagpipe. Now I was ready to meet the lord.
All except my best scout, who climbed into the middle of a wide soft bed, child in arms.
“Why did you hide the mite?” asked my scholar.
“This keep seems full of rigid thinkers, overly satisfied with themselves and their behavior. If they saw the child they would demand an explanation. ‘Why do you keep it? Can’t you see how fragmentary it is? Can’t you see that it’s barely alive? Don’t you know how to cut your losses?’ I don’t want to argue or explain.”
“What is meant by ‘I’?” my male parts asked. “What is meant by ‘my’ reasons?”
“This is no time for an argument,” said the poet.
All of me except the scout went to meet the keep’s famous lord.
The Straightener sat at one end of large hall: an elderly goxhat with frosted hair. Four parts of her remained, all sturdy, though missing a few pieces here and there: a foot, a hand, an eye or finger. Along the edges of the hall sat her retainers on long benches: powerful males, females, and neuters, adorned with iron and gold.
“Great your fame,
Gold-despoiler,
Bold straightener of scrota,
Wise lord of Ibri.
“Hearing of it,
I’ve crossed high mountains,
Anxious to praise
Your princely virtues.”
My poet stopped. Straightener leaned forward. “Well? Go on! I want to hear about my princely virtues.”
“Give me a day to speak with your retainers and get exact details of your many achievements,” the poet said. “Then I will be able to praise you properly.”
The goxhat leaned back. “Never heard of me, have you? Drat! I was hoping for undying fame.”
“I will give it to you,” my poet said calmly.
“Very well,” the lord said. “I’ll give you a day, and if I like what you compose, I’ll leave your male parts alone.”
All of me thanked her. Then I told the hall about my stay at the ruined keep. The retainers listened intently. When I had finished, the lord said, “My long-time neighbor! Dead by murder! Well, death comes to all of us. When I was born, I had twenty parts. A truly large number! That is what I’m famous for, as well as my dislike of men, which is mere envy. My male bodies died in childhood, and my neuter parts did not survive early adulthood. By thirty, I was down to ten bodies, all female. The neuters were not much of a loss. Supercilious twits, I always thought. But I miss my male parts. They were so feisty and full of piss! When travelers come here, I set them difficult tasks. If they fail, I have my soldiers hold them, while I unfold their delicate, coiled testicles. No permanent damage is done, but the screaming makes me briefly happy.”
My male bodies looked uneasy and shifted back and forth on their feet, as if ready to run. But the two neuters remained calm. My poet thanked the lord a second time, sounding confident. Then I split up and went in all directions through the hall, seeking information.
The drinking went on till dawn, and the lord’s retainers were happy to tell me stories about the Straightener. She had a female love of comfort and fondness for children, but could not be called tender in any other way. Rather, she was a fierce leader in battle and a strict ruler, as exact as a balance or a straight-edge.
“She’ll lead us against Bent Foot,” one drunk soldier said. “We’ll kill him and bring the children here. The stolen children, at least. I don’t know about Bent Foot’s spawn. It might be better for them to die. Not my problem. I let the lord make all the decisions, except whether or not I’m going to fart.”
Finally, I went up to my room. My scout lay asleep, the baby in her arms. My male parts began to pace nervously. The rest of me settled to compose a poem.
As the sky brightened, the world outside began to wake and make noise. Most of the noise could be ignored, but there was a wishik under the eaves directly outside my room’s window. Its shrill, repeating cry drove my poet to distraction. I could not concentrate on the poem.
Desperate, I threw things at the animal: buttons from my sewing kit, spare pens, an antique paperweight I found in the room. Nothing worked. The wishik fluttered away briefly, then returned and resumed its irritating cry.
At last my scout woke. I explained the problem. She nodded and listened to the wishik for a while. Then she fastened a string to an arrow and shot the arrow out the window. It hit the wishik. The animal gave a final cry. Grabbing the string, my scout pulled the beast inside.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t want the body to fall in the courtyard.”
“Why not?”
Before she could answer, the body at her feet expanded and changed its shape. Instead of the body of a dead wishik, I saw a gray goxhat-body, pierced by the scout’s arrow, dead.
My males swore. The rest of me exclaimed in surprise.
My scout said, “This is part of a wizard, no doubt employed by the keep’s lord, who must really want to unroll my testicles, since she is willing to be unfair and play tricks. The wishik cry was magical, designed to bother me so much that I could not concentrate on my composition. If this body had fallen to the ground, the rest of the wizard would have seen it and known the trick had failed. As things are, I may have time to finish the poem.” The scout looked at the rest of me severely. “Get to work.”
My poet went back to composing, my scribe to writing. The poem went smoothly now. As the stanzas grew in number, I grew increasingly happy and pleased. Soon I noticed the pleasure was sexual. This sometimes happened, though usually when a poem was erotic. The god of poetry and the god of sex are siblings, though they share only one parent, who is called the All-Mother-Father.
Even though the poem was not erotic, my male and female parts became increasingly excited. Ah! I was rubbing against myself. Ah! I was making soft noises! The poet and scribe could not feel this sexual pleasure, of course, but the sight of the rest of me tumbling on the rug was distracting. Yes, neuters are clear-eyed and rational, but they are also curious; and nothing arouses their curiosity more than sex. They stopped working on the poem and watched as I fondled myself.5
Only the scout remained detached from sensuality and went into the defecating closet. Coming out with a bucket of cold water, the scout poured it over my amorous bodies.
I sprang apart, yelling with shock.
“This is more magic,” the scout said. “I did not know a spell inciting lust could be worked at such a distance, but evidently it can. Every part of me that is male or female, go in the bathroom! Wash in cold water till the idea of sex becomes uninteresting! As for my neuter parts—” The scout glared. “Get back to the poem!”
“Why has one part of me escaped the spell?” I asked the scout.
“I did not think I could lactate without laying an egg first, but the child’s attempts to nurse have caused my body to produce milk. As a rule, nursing mothers are not interested in sex, and this has proved true of me. Because of this, and the child’s stubborn nursing, there is a chance of finishing the poem. I owe this child a debt of gratitude.”
“Maybe,” grumbled my male parts. The poet and scribe said, “I shall see.”
The poem was done by sunset. That evening I recited it in the lord’s hall. If I do say so myself, it was a splendid achievement. The wishik’s cry was in it, as was the rocking up-and-down rhythm of a sexually excited goxhat. The second gave the poem energy and an emphatic beat. As for the first, every line ended with one of the two sounds in the wishik’s ever-repeating, irritating cry. Nowadays, we call this repetition of sound “rhyming.” But it had no name when I invented it.
When I was done, the lord ordered several retainers to memorize the poem. “I want to hear it over and over,” she said. “What a splendid idea it is to make words ring against each other in this fashion! How striking the sound! How memorable! Between you and the traveling plumber, I will certainly be famous.”
That night was spent like the first one, everyone except me feasting. I feigned indigestion and poured my drinks on the floor under the feasting table. The lord was tricky and liked winning. Who could say what she might order put in my cup or bowl, now that she had my poem?
When the last retainer fell over and began to snore, I got up and walked to the hall’s main door. Sometime in the next day or so, the lord would discover that her wizard had lost a part to death and that one of her paperweights was missing. I did not want to be around when these discoveries were made.
Standing in the doorway, I considered looking for the treadmill. Maybe I could free the prisoners. They might be travelers like me, innocent victims of the lord’s malice and envy and her desire for hot water on every floor. But there were likely to be guards around the treadmill, and the guards might be sober. I was only one goxhat. I could not save everyone. And the servant had said they were criminals.
I climbed the stairs quietly, gathered my belongings and the baby, and left through a window down a rope made of knotted sheets.
The sky was clear; the brilliant star we call Beacon stood above the high peaks, shedding so much light I had no trouble seeing my way. I set a rapid pace eastward. Toward morning, clouds moved in. The Beacon vanished. Snow began to fall, concealing my trail. The baby, nursing on the scout, made happy noises.
Two days later, I was out of the mountains, camped in a forest by an unfrozen stream. Water made a gentle sound, purling over pebbles. The trees on the banks were changers, a local variety that is blue in summer and yellow in winter. At the moment, their leaves were thick with snow. “Silver and gold,” my poet murmured, looking up.
The scribe made a note.
A wishik clung to a branch above the poet and licked its wings. Whenever it shifted position, snow came down.
“The wishik cleans wings
As white as snow.
Snow falls on me, white
As a wishik, ”
the poet said.
My scribe scribbled.
One of my cudgel-carriers began the discussion. “The Bane of Poets was entirely neuter. Fear of death made it crazy. Bent Foot was entirely male. Giving in to violence, he stole children from his neighbor. The last lord I encountered, the ruler of the heated keep, was female, malicious and unfair. Surely something can be learned from these encounters. A person should not be one sex entirely, but rather—as I am—a harmonious mixture of male, female, and neuter. But this child can’t help but be a single sex.”
“I owe the child a debt of gratitude,” said my best scout firmly. “Without her, I would have had pain and humiliation, when the lord—a kind of lunatic—unrolled my testes, as she clearly planned to do. At best, I would have limped away from the keep in pain. At worst, I might have ended in the lord’s treadmill, raising water from the depths to make her comfortable.”
“The question is a good one,” said my scribe. “How can a person who is only one sex avoid becoming a monster? The best combination is the one I have: male, female, and both kinds of neuter. But even two sexes provide a balance.”
“Other people—besides these three—have consisted of one sex,” my scout said stubbornly. “Not all became monsters. It isn’t sex that has influenced these lords, but the stony fields and spiny mountains of Ibri, the land’s cold winters and ferocious wildlife. My various parts can teach the child my different qualities: the valor of the cudgel-carriers, the coolness of poet and scribe, the female tenderness that the rest of me has. Then she will become a single harmony.”
The scout paused. The rest of me looked dubious. The scout continued.
“Many people lose parts of themselves through illness, accident, and war; and some of these live for years in a reduced condition. Yes, it’s sad and disturbing, but it can’t be called unnatural. Consider aging and the end of life. The old die body by body, till a single body remains. Granted, in many cases, the final body dies quickly. But not always. Every town of good size has a Gram or Gaffer who hobbles around in a single self.
“I will not give up an infant I have nursed with my own milk. Do I wish to be known as ungrateful or callous? I, who have pinned all my hope on honor and fame?”
I looked at myself with uncertain expressions. The wishik shook down more snow.
“Well, then,” said my poet, who began to look preoccupied. Another poem coming, most likely. “I will take the child to a crèche and leave her there.”
My scout scowled. “How well will she be cared for there, among healthy children, by tenders who are almost certain to be prejudiced against a mite so partial and incomplete? I will not give her up.”
“Think of how much I travel,” a cudgel-carrier said. “How can I take a child on my journeys?”
“Carefully and tenderly,” the scout replied. “The way my ancestors who were nomads did. Remember the old stories! When they traveled, they took everything, even the washing pot. Surely their children were not left behind.”
“I have bonded excessively to this child,” said my scribe to the scout.
“Yes, I have. It’s done and can’t be undone. I love her soft baby-down, her four blue eyes, her feisty spirit. I will not give her up.”
I conversed this way for some time. I didn’t become angry at myself, maybe because I had been through so much danger recently. There is nothing like serious fear to put life into perspective. Now and then, when the conversation became especially difficult, a part of me got up and went into the darkness to kick the snow or to piss. When the part came back, he or she or it seemed better.
Finally I came to an agreement. I would keep the child and carry it on my journeys, though half of me remained unhappy with this decision.
How difficult it is to be of two minds! Still, it happens; and all but the insane survive such divisions. Only they forget the essential unity that underlies differences of opinion. Only they begin to believe in individuality.
The next morning, I continued into Ib.
The poem I composed for the lord of the warm keep became famous. Its form, known as “ringing praise,” was taken up by other poets. From it, I gained some fame, enough to quiet my envy; and the fame led to some money, which provided for my later years.
Did I ever return to Ibri? No. The land was too bitter and dangerous; and I didn’t want to meet the lord of the warm keep a second time. Instead, I settled in Lesser Ib, buying a house on a bank of a river named It-Could-Be-Worse. This turned out to be an auspicious name. The house was cozy and my neighbors pleasant. The child played in my fenced- in garden, tended by my female parts. As for my neighbors, they watched with interest and refrained from mentioning the child’s obvious disability.
“Lip-presser on one side.
Tongue-biter on t’other.
Happy I live,
Praising good neighbors.”
I traveled less than previously, because of the child and increasing age. But I did make the festivals in Greater and Lesser Ib. This was easy traveling on level roads across wide plains. The Ibian lords, though sometimes eccentric, were nowhere near as crazy as the ones in Ibri and no danger to me or other poets. At one of the festivals, I met the famous plumber, who turned out to be a large and handsome male and neuter goxhat. I won the festival crown for poetry, and he/it won the crown for ingenuity. Celebrating with egg wine, we became amorous and fell into each other’s many arms.
It was a fine romance and ended without regret, as did all my other romances. As a group, we goxhat are happiest with ourselves. In addition, I could not forget the prisoners in the treadmill. Whether the plumber planned it or not, he/it had caused pain for others. Surely it was wrong—unjust—for some to toil in darkness, so that others had a warm bed and hot water from a pipe?
I have to say, at times I dreamed of that keep: the warm halls, the pipes of water, the heated bathing pool and the defecating throne that had—have I forgotten to mention this?—a padded seat.
“Better to be here
In my cozy cottage.
Some comforts
Have too high a cost.”
I never laid any fertile eggs. My only child is Ap the Foundling, who is also known as Ap of One Body and Ap the Many-talented. As the last nickname suggests, the mite turned out well.
As for me, I became known as The Clanger and The Wishik, because of my famous rhyming poem. Other names were given to me as well: The Child Collector, The Nurturer, and The Poet Who Is Odd.