Robert Sawyer - Foreigner

Garios looked like he was going to make another objection, but apparently thought better of it. “Very well,” he said at last. “But—”

“Yes?” said Novato.

Garios dipped his long muzzle, looking at the ground. “Come back, Novato,” he said. “Be safe, and come back to us.” A pause, then he lifted his muzzle. “To me.”

Novato turned away. “Help me start gathering supplies,” she said.

Afsan is proving to be quite a challenge. His mind is remarkable, but instead of his bad dreams abating as he undertakes the talking cure, he tells me they are getting worse. The dreams he describes are horrifying, full of blood and death, and yet they seem unrelated to each other, with no common theme. The only element that has repeated itself is an image of a wingfinger with purple wings flying above the scene. Offhand, I don’t know of any species of wingfinger that has purple wings, but I’ll research the matter as soon as I get some time.

I got another letter today from Anakod, who is apparently vacationing on Boodskar. He’s pooh-poohing my theories again. Dreams have no meaning, he says, dismissing them as just random activity by a tired mind. Anakod is a fool; he’d seemed so promising as a student, but his rejection of my research shows him to be even blinder than Afsan. I’m sure I’ll be able to interpret Afsan’s dreams, if only I can decipher his symbolism.

On another point, I’ve noticed an interesting effect lately. I’ve seen hints of it before in my dealings with other patients, but here it’s clear-cut: Afsan has been responding to me not as Mokleb, but as he used to respond to, or used to want to respond to, his old teaching master, Saleed. It’s as if he’s transferred his feelings for Saleed onto me.

I’m going to try something different, something I’ve always avoided, in our next session. If his repressed feelings toward Saleed are so strong, I have a hunch that there’s someone else for whom his feelings may be even stronger.

Mokleb found a different rock for herself this time. Instead of straddling a boulder downwind of Afsan, she chose one upwind of him.

“You’ve changed positions,” said Afsan abruptly.

“Think nothing of it,” said Mokleb. “It’s of no importance.”

“I thought everything was important,” said Afsan. More and more lately, he’d been starting their sessions in a snit, no doubt aggravated by his ongoing sleeping difficulties. “Time and again you’ve stressed that every action is significant.”

Mokleb ignored that. “I want to talk today about one of the relationships in your life that we haven’t explored so far.”

Afsan sighed. “Well, there is a fellow up in Chu’toolar who once helped me across a street. We haven’t beaten to death all the ins and outs of that relationship yet.”

“I was thinking of someone closer to home,” said Mokleb patiently. “I was thinking of Novato.”

“What about her?” said Afsan, suspicious.

“Well, she has filled many different roles in your life. It was with her that you worked out the fact that the world was doomed.”

“Yes.”

“And she is the mother of your children.”

“Biologically, the mother. Biologically, my children. Of course, all children are the children of the Pack.”

“Of course,” said Mokleb. “Of course. Tell me about your relationship with Novato.”

“We see each other frequently, perhaps every fifty days or so, when she’s not off working at the ark in Fra’toolar. I cherish the time we spend together.” Afsan lifted his muzzle. “Are there no clouds today? It’s awfully warm.”

“There are some clouds,” said Mokleb. “There are almost always clouds.”

“I suppose.”

“Are there clouds in your relationship with Novato?”

“By the Eggs of Creation, Mokleb, you do have a thing for metaphors.” But Afsan clicked his teeth, as if his ill humor from before was draining away. “But to answer your question, no. There are no clouds in our relationship.” Afsan lowered his voice. “In fact, if you want to know something, I’ll tell you what her last words were to me, before I left her the morning after we had first met. I’d greeted her with the old ‘I cast a shadow in your presence.’ She replied—I cherish these words still, Mokleb—’We cast shadows in each other’s presence, Afsan. And when we’re together, there is light everywhere and no shadows fall at all.’ ”

“That’s beautiful,” said Mokleb.

“Yes,” said Afsan peacefully. “Yes, it is. And she’s beautiful, too, Mokleb. A delightful person. There’s not much that gives me joy in life, but my relationship with her does. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: when I’m falling asleep, to clear my mind of the troubles of the day, I conjure up a memory of her face, her beautiful face, the way I remember it from the one time I saw it, all those kilodays ago. No image is more calming for me than the face of Novato.”

Mokleb dipped her claw into the inkpot. “She is older than you,” she said.

“By a few kilodays. Irrelevant now, of course; as a percentage of our current ages, the difference is trivial. But back then, when we met in Pack Gelbo, yes, there was something fascinating about a female who was older, who had long since gone through the rites of passage.” A small pause. “And yet, I guess, there’s one rite of passage we went through together.”

“You’re talking about sex,” said Mokleb.

Afsan wasn’t offended. “Yes. It was my first time, and hers, I suspect, too. I mean, she was older than me, but she was still shy of eighteen kilodays—one year—the age at which a female normally first gives signs of receptivity.” Afsan sighed contentedly. “Those pheromones, Mokleb. Those wonderful pheromones. It’s almost as if I can smell them now.”

“No doubt,” said Mokleb, deadpan.

“I really like Novato,” said Afsan. “She’s so intelligent, so pleasant to be with. She makes it seem like, like, oh, I don’t know, like there’s no territoriality. I don’t mean that she comes physically close to me or to others. Nothing like that. But when I’m with her, there’s a relaxing feeling of not being crowded, of not being wary. The territoriality is still there, I’m sure, but it’s in the background. I’m not—say, here’s an observation you’ll like—I’m not consciously aware of it.” Afsan clicked his teeth. “It’s a comfortable relationship.”

Mokleb had an array of noncommittal sounds she made, including grunts, the touching of teeth, the tapping of fingerclaws on stone—anything to show, especially to her blind patient, that she was still listening. This time, she lifted her tail a bit and let it gently bounce against the boulder.

“The relationship between you and me, Mokleb, can be comfortable, too,” Afsan said. “I know it isn’t always, but when things are going well, when we’re talking about our innermost thoughts and there’s no sense of judgment or derision, just gentle acceptance, that reminds me of when I’m with Novato. You came from a good egg, Mokleb.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, I don’t know that much about you, really,” said Afsan. “How old are you?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Say—maybe this is inappropriate, I don’t know—but perhaps someday we should go for a walk or something, just the two of us. Nothing to do with our formal sessions, you understand. Just a chance to get to know each other better.”

“Perhaps,” said Mokleb. For a time, she simply let the wind waft over herself and blow onto Afsan. “Was there ever an occasion when you weren’t comfortable with your relationship with Novato?”