Robert Silverberg: At Winter's End

Koshmar peered around warily. It was forbidden to disturb Ryyig Dream-Dreamer in any way. But many things that had been forbidden seemed permissible now. She was alone in the chamber. Gently she put her hand to the Dream-Dreamer’s bare shoulder. How strange his skin felt! Like an old worn piece of leather, terribly soft, delicate, vulnerable. His body was not like any of theirs: he was altogether without fur, a naked pink creature with long slender arms and frail little legs that could never have carried him anywhere. And he had no sensing-organ at all.

“Ryyig? Ryyig?” Koshmar whispered. “Open your eyes again! Tell me what you are meant to tell!”

He seemed to wriggle a bit in his cradle, as though annoyed that she was trespassing on his slumber. His bare forehead furrowed; through his thin lips came a faint little whistling sound. His eyes remained closed.

“Ryyig? Tell me: is the time of falling stars over? Will the sun shine again? Is it safe for us to go outside?”

Koshmar thought that his eyelids might be flickering. Boldly she rocked him by the shoulder, and then more boldly still, as if she meant to pull him awake by force. Her fingers dug deeply into his sparse flesh. She felt the frail bones just beneath. Would Thekmur have taken such risks? she wondered. Would Nialli? Perhaps not. No matter. Koshmar shook him again. Ryyig uttered a little mewing noise and turned his head away from her.

“You tried to say it before,” Koshmar whispered fiercely. “Say it! The winter is over. Say it! Say it!”

Suddenly the thin pale lids pulled back. She found herself staring into strange haunting eyes of a deep violet hue, shrouded by dreams and mysteries of which she knew she could never comprehend a thing. The impact of those eyes, at this close range, was so overwhelming that Koshmar fell back a pace or two. But she recovered quickly.

“Come!” she called. “Everyone, come! He’s waking up again! Come! Come quickly!”

The slender fragile figure in the cradle seemed to be struggling once more to a sitting position. Koshmar slipped her arm behind his back and drew him upward. His head wobbled, as if too heavy for his neck. Once more that gurgling sound came from him. Koshmar bent low, putting her ear to his mouth. The People were entering from both sides of the chamber now, gathering close around her. She saw Minbain, and little Cheysz, and the young warrior Salaman. Harruel came in grandly, pushing others aside, staring with blazing eyes at the Dream-Dreamer.

And Ryyig spoke.

“The— winter—”

His voice was feeble but the words were unmistakable.

“The— winter—”

“—is over,” Koshmar prompted. “Yes! Yes! Say it! Say, Why do you wait? The winter is over! ”

A third time: “The— winter—”

The thin lips worked convulsively. Muscles flickered in the fleshless jaws. Ryyig’s body sagged against her arm; his shoulders rippled strangely; his eyes went dull and lost their focus.

“Is he dead?” Harruel asked. “I think he is. The Dream-Dreamer’s dead!”

“He’s only gone back to sleep,” said Torlyri.

Koshmar shook her head. Harruel was right. There was no life to Ryyig at all. She put her face close to his. She touched his cheek, his arm, his hand. Dead, yes. Cold, limp, dead. That must surely mean the end of one age, the beginning of another. Koshmar lowered his flimsy form to the cradle and turned triumphantly to her people. Her breast throbbed in exultation. The moment had come. Yes, and it had come in the chieftainship of Koshmar, as she had long prayed it would.

“You heard him!” she declared. “ ‘ Why do you wait? ’ is what he said. ‘ The winter is over! ’ he said. We will leave our cocoon. We will leave this mountain: let the stinking ice-eaters have it, if that is what they want. Come, we should begin collecting our possessions. We have to make ready for the journeying! This is the day we go outside!”

Torlyri said in her mild way, “All I heard him say was ‘the winter,’ Koshmar. Nothing more than that.”

Koshmar stared at her, amazed. Now she was certain that this was truly a time of great changes, for twice this day the gentle Torlyri had put her will in opposition to that of her twining-partner. Holding back her temper, for she loved Torlyri dearly, Koshmar said, “You heard wrong. His voice was very faint, but I have no doubt of his words. What do you say, Thaggoran? Is this not the Time of Going Forth? And you? And you?”

She looked about the chamber sternly. No one dared to meet her gaze.

“Then you agree,” she said. “The winter is over. No more stars will fall. Come, now. The dark time has ended and now by grace of Yissou and Dawinno we humans reclaim our world.”

She lashed her thick, strong sensing-organ from side to side in great sweeping thumping movements of authority. Those fierce movements defied them all to speak against her. And no one spoke. Koshmar saw the boy Hresh gazing fixedly at her, eyes gleaming with intense excitement. It was agreed, then. This was the day. She would have to consult Thaggoran about the actual procedure, which she knew was going to be elaborate and time-consuming. But the preparations for departure, the complex round of rites and ceremonies and all the rest, would begin as soon as possible. And then the people of Koshmar’s cocoon would go forth to take possession of the world.

From the niche where the shinestones were kept Thaggoran took the five oldest, the ones known as Vingir, Nilmir, Dralmir, Hrongnir, and Thungvir, and placed them in the pentagram pattern on the altar. They were the holiest ones, the most effective ones. He touched each stone in turn, building the link between them that produced the divination. Their mirror-bright black surfaces gleamed brilliantly beneath the clusters of glowberries that illuminated the dwelling-chamber, a fierce hard gleam though the glowberry light itself was soft; it was as though that mild illumination from without had kindled some cool but intense fire within the shinestones themselves.

Thaggoran had come to resign himself now to the awareness that no new shinestone would be added to the collection, despite the thrice-repeated dream that told him he was destined to find one. What he had found in the maze of caverns below was ice-eaters, not a new shinestone. And there was no time now for him to continue the search.

But dreams were not always exact in their prophecies. He had had auguries of a great discovery, at least; and a great discovery was what he had made.

He touched Vingir, and Dralmir, and Thungvir, and felt the force of the gleaming black stones. He touched Nilmir. He touched Hrongnir. He began the incantation. Tell me tell me tell me tell me —

“Tell me,” said a voice behind him.

He leaped up, stung by the way the words in his mind had burst into his hearing from without. Hresh stood at the entrance to the chamber, balancing in his strange way on one leg alone, staring wide-eyed, looking skittish, ready to flee at a frown. “Please, Thaggoran, tell me—”

“Boy, this is no moment for questions!”

“What are you doing with the shinestones, Thaggoran?”

“You didn’t understand what I said?”

“I understand,” Hresh said. His lip quivered. His huge eerie eyes grew moist. He started to back away. “Are you angry with me? I didn’t know you were doing anything important.”

“We’re getting ready to leave the cocoon, do you understand that?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“And I need to seek the counsel of the gods. I need to know if our venture will succeed.”

“The shinestones will tell you that?”

“If I ask the questions the correct way, they will,” Thaggoran said.

“May I watch?”