Sentience, page 13
part #1 of Farm Land Series
She looked around and smiled. “The first ones, those who lived before us, created stories to teach us about life,” she said. “And if any has a story they wish to tell, a story they feel would give something to the people of this village, they shall come forward without fear.”
She gestured to a woman at the side of the room called Immortelle, her belly swollen with child. “As we give life to new members of our village,” she continued. “So we grant life to new stories, of our world, our hopes, warnings from the past… there is much we may learn from stories that cannot be taught by other means.”
I leaned back on Skye’s chest, a wooden cup of lea in my hands. The drink had burnt my tongue at first, then became sweet and warming. The first taste had made me gasp, causing others near me to chortle at my inexperience, but the next sip and the next were syrupy and comforting. My belly and blood were pleasantly heated by the drink, and my mind slackened under its power, but with Skye’s warnings about its potency in mind, I still nursed my first cup, and drank each sip carefully.
Skye’s body was steady and warm. His legs to one side of me, I leaned back as though he were an extension of me. He did not seek to touch me; he was just there, where I needed him to be.
“It falls to me to tell the first tale,” said Bracken. “And I will tell one that was told to my brother and me by our father.” She glanced at Skye and he smiled.
I wondered for a moment that a brother and sister could look so different. Bracken said they had each taken after their mothers, but I knew their father was strong within them. Not only in signs like this story, but in the gift of Reaching he had passed to each of his children. They both missed him, and honoured his memory each day, in everything they did. I wished I could have known him, and their mothers.
A palpable hush settled on the round house. All eyes were stolen from the glowing fire, to gaze on Bracken, her beautiful face lit by the radiance of the flames, their light casting eerie shadows on her, making her seem like another person, another being; something ancient and wise.
“One day,” she said, her voice dropping to a soft, lulling tone. “When all men were free and walked the earth without fear of other men, a villager needed to travel to reach the harvest of an important plant far away. As he walked, he saw there were two ways he might reach the plant; the first was to swim across a river, but the river was wide and fast-flowing and he feared to jump into it lest he be swept away, out to the wide water beyond. The second way was much longer. He would need to travel up through the mountains, which would take many months, and he feared he would miss the season of harvest.
“As he pondered his problem, a creature stepped from the bushes. The creature had eight legs and hundreds of eyes. The villager stepped back, raising his staff, for this creature was a spider, and spiders will eat men if they can.
“But in the days of old, all creatures had the gift of Reaching, so the man spoke to the spider. Come no closer, said the man through his thoughts.
I mean you no harm, said the spider. I have already eaten well this day.
What do you want, then? asked the man, lowering his stick.
The spider stared at him, her hundreds of eyes unblinking, twinkling in the sunshine. I wish to cross the river, she said, and I cannot do it alone, but if you and I were to swim together, our twelve legs would be able to beat the current and carry us across.
I have two legs and two arms, said the man waving his hands at the creature These are arms, not legs.”
There was a chuckle from those listening.
“The spider shrugged. What you choose to call them means nothing to me, she said. Will you help me if I help you?
What makes you think I want to cross the river? the man asked.
The spider shrugged again. Why else would you be watching it?
“The man narrowed his eyes. But you are a spider, he said. Why would you not bite me and eat me?
I cannot make the crossing by myself, she said. If I bite you, I will die as well. I do not want to die. All creatures want to live.
“The man considered the wisdom of these words. Perhaps it would be better to accept the help of the spider and cross the river here. It would save him months of travel, and help him to reach the plant in time to harvest it. Very well, he said. I accept your offer.
Good, said the spider, walking to the man.
“At the edge of the river, the man lowered himself into the raging waters and lay flat so he could swim using all his arms and legs. As he steadied himself, holding onto the reeds of the bank, the spider hopped onto the man’s back, putting all of her eight legs into the water, four on each side of the man’s body. Though not strong enough to cross alone, together they made one marvellous swimmer; the spider’s legs rowed on either side of the man’s body, whilst the man struck out with his powerful limbs.
“They were making excellent progress, reaching half-way across the river, when suddenly the man felt a horrible pain in his neck and a paralysing stillness spreading through his body. His arms and legs grew sluggish, and the steady beat of his heart slowed.
The spider had bitten him. He was dying.
“The man started to sink. The craft made of spider and man faltered in the raging river. Unable to swim by herself, the spider sat on his back as the waters started to cover them.
Why? said the man as they sank below the waters. Now you will die too.
The spider shrugged as her hairy body sank beneath the river. I am Spider, she said. I could not help it.”
Silence spread over the room, deep and thoughtful. Bracken’s face grew calm as she finished her story. “Take what wisdom you will from my tale,” she said. “Or leave it all behind and go forth none the wiser. The choice is yours as ever it was, and ever it shall be.”
“As ever it shall be,” intoned the villagers around me. Clearly, this was something they used to end their stories.
A man stood up. His name was Elm. “I have a story to share,” he said. The villagers turned their eyes to him.
“My tale is of a spider called Anansi,” said Elm. “The wisest and cleverest of all spiders was Anansi, but he was also a trickster; one who would not suffer a master and wished to be free, like all of us.
“One day, Anansi was hanging in his web, watching the world as it woke, and he had a sudden thought; there was great wisdom in the world, and what if all that wisdom should belong to Anansi alone? Then, he would be the best hunter, the happiest eater, and he would have no master but himself. Anansi saw that the wisdom of the world was strung in strands which hung in the wind, just like his web. With his spider-eyes, he could see it, bending and twisting in the breeze, and, taking a pot from a human friend, Anansi started to gather all the wisdom of the world into that pot, thinking to keep it, and use it only for himself.
“Anansi did well. He took up the fibres of all stories in his eight, strong legs, and twisted them, curling knowledge into itself, threading tales through each other until they were so knotted they could not escape, and then he put them into his pot. Anansi opened his pot each day, and each day he learnt new things. He heard stories which came from all over the world, learnt of how the world came to be, and as he learnt more, he became worried. ‘The pot must be sealed,’ Anansi said to himself. ‘What if all this knowledge were to get out, and become lost?’ So Anansi took his best and strongest thread, and used it to seal the pot shut.
“With the pot sealed, Anansi suddenly became worried. What if the wisdom of the world should become unfurled, like fern leaves when morning light came, and what if it should escape? What if someone came to steal it? Secretly, Anansi took his pot to a tall, thorny tree in the forest. His son, Ntikuma, saw him go, and followed, curious about what his father was up to.
“Anansi climbed the thorny tree, being careful of the sharp spikes on his soft underbelly, but as he climbed he found the pot of wisdom too cumbersome, so he tied it with spider-silk to his front. Now, with the pot like this, Anansi could not climb so well, and he kept slipping, jarring his legs and rear on the spikes of the tree, and becoming more frustrated each moment.
“Ntikuma chuckled to see his father struggle, for Anansi was wise and failures and difficulties did not come easily to him, so it was a novelty to see him struggle. ‘Tie the pot to your back, Father,’ said Ntikuma. ‘Then you will be able to grab the tree.’
“Anansi was a little annoyed to see that his son had noted something he had failed to. ‘How is it that I, the great Anansi, who possesses all the wisdom in the world, did not see this, and my child, who has no wisdom, did?’ he asked himself. But Anansi, being a wise spider, the wisest of all, decided to try his son’s advice. He tied the pot to his back, and the rest of the climb was easy.
‘Why,’ Anansi thought, amazed. ‘I could have done this climb with two legs, like the poor, pathetic humans, carrying the pot of wisdom this way!’
Villagers laughed and toasted Elm as he grinned at them.
“Anansi was suddenly very angry with himself, and in anger, even the wisest do much that is foolish. Anansi took the pot from his back and threw it. The pot of wisdom fell to the ground. As the pot smashed on the earth, the curled and twisted wisdom, tied in knots about itself, fell out and spilled across the dark earth. A sudden storm came, and water washed the wisdom free, unfurling it in its blue and white hands. Anansi cried out as all his hard work was undone, and the wisdom of the world was washed out to sea, spreading across the world, so that there was a little of it everywhere, in every place, on every shore. Stories flowed on water and into the air, drifting to distant lands, where they leapt into the hearts and mouths of storytellers, waiting to be told. The wisdom of the world was spread everywhere, so everyone might get a little, if they simply looked for it. No one person would have it all, and no person would be without a little.
“Anansi was angry, and he scuttled down the tree to chase his son home. But as they dodged raindrops, Anansi started to laugh. Catching his son in his eight legs just as they reached home, Anansi told his son he was not angry with him anymore. ‘For what use is all the wisdom, all the knowledge of the world,’ Anansi asked, ‘if the wisest of all still needs a child to put him right?’
“Ntikuma was happy to hear his father was not angry with him anymore. ‘Now everyone can have the wisdom of the world,’ he thought. ‘Because no one, no matter how clever, should have it all.’
Elm smiled as he finished. “Take what wisdom you will from my tale,” he said. “Or leave it all behind and go forth none the wiser. The choice is yours as ever it was, and ever it shall be.”
“As ever it shall be,” intoned the villagers. And this time, I joined my voice to theirs.
Chapter Twenty-One
Far from Home
Reach out with your thoughts, urged Bracken’s calm voice in my head. Do not seek to move your arms or legs, just let the flow of your mind carry you.
I struggled to obey her, but my mind was not fixed on her lessons that morning. We sat opposite each other in the darkened hut. Bracken had showed me how she could follow my thoughts as they left my mind and entered that of another. Like two silent ghosts we could travel side by side, with no one seeing or feeling us, unless they too were Reachers. Outside, rain pelted the roof of the round room, and in the distance I could hear villagers calling to one another as they went about their tasks.
Bracken had taken the advice of Mother to heart. Since the rains first had come, she had taken me aside each morning to try to hone my gift.
The first lessons had brought me little but happiness. She taught me to steal outside of my mind, to float in the air, hearing thoughts as they passed through the minds of our people. It was thrilling to hear snippets of thought, to be able to pass unseen and unheard, a ghost in the night. The concealment I had always wished to possess when in the pits was now mine. I could go unnoticed, yet see all.
But as the days had passed, I had grown uncomfortable. There was much to do, even in this season of rain. Walls had to be mended, defences inspected, food stores rotated, and cooking and weaving still went on inside the round houses, as well as gathering wood and food, although in more limited amounts. I wanted so much to be of use. I cherished these people as my own family, and being taken aside to learn Reaching, as endless water flowed through the village, making life harder, felt irresponsible. I should be helping, I thought.
Release your fears and concerns, her voice said inside my head. Do not linger with those feelings. There other ways to help, besides lifting and carrying.
“You knew what I was thinking,” I said aloud. Bracken’s eyes flickered open, dark with exasperation.
“Yes,” she said simply. Her eyes scanned mine. “Your thoughts are loud and easy to feel since we are linked,” she said. “But you should set those thoughts aside. You are not betraying our people by spending time here rather than out there. You must learn to use your gift.”
“But there is so much to do,” I said in a plaintive tone. “I feel so useless.”
Bracken had started to close her eyes, to prepare to enter my mind, but she stopped, her eyes flickering open. “Holt,” she said in a calm, yet stern, voice. “Each person in this village has gifts, and it is of value to all of us when we use those gifts, enhance them. There are others to do the work set for this morning, and you will help this afternoon. Don’t let this distract you from your task now.”
“I won’t… as long as they don’t feel angry towards me.”
Bracken smiled. “Reach, and see for yourself,” she said. “Try now.”
I closed my eyes and tried to soften the thoughts racing through my head. It was a curious sensation; Bracken had taught me to push down on my thoughts, thinking of them as the dough which we formed into loaves and baked on our fires. As they softened, I could brush them to one side. Let them become as dust, Bracken said. Let them rise into the skies of your mind. Float upon them, rise above them.
The whirling thoughts became as powder, the white dusting on the wings of the moth in the field of flax, the rising mist of the forest. My mind slackened, and another part of me, normally hidden beneath the torrent of thoughts and feelings and emotion, pushed up from the earth of my mind, into its skies.
Good, said Bracken. Now, take yourself to find the mind of another.
Who? My inner voice was louder than hers. I felt her wince. I’m sorry, I said, trying to moderate it.
I could almost feel her smiling. It is not unusual to shout when we first use our gifts. We get so used to hearing only our thoughts that we do not notice the volume at which we talk.
Perhaps that’s why it is a rare gift, I said softly. We think too loud to hear anyone else.
Bracken’s thoughts rumbled with laughter. Perhaps.
My inner mind started to flow from me; a curious feeling of looseness, pouring from me as water in the river. As though by instinct, my mind was drawn to that of another. I found myself hearing Ash’s thoughts as she stood outside the hut.
Stoke the fires, light the lights… Her voice was clear, listing the jobs she had to do that day. Rotate the wood, bank up the ditches. It was a mundane list, but the excitement of hearing her thoughts was both unnerving and intoxicating.
You hear someone? asked Bracken.
I hear Ash, but she doesn’t know I am here… Is it always this way? We can hear them, but they do not hear us?
Why do you think I am so good at knowing when someone needs something? Bracken asked. It is through the gift of Reaching, not by other means.
How often were you in my head before I knew? I asked, my voice shocked.
Bracken laughed. Many times, she said. Does that surprise you?
Yes, I said, I just thought you were… sensitive.
We are sensitive, she said. The gift makes us so.
Softly, I pulled back from Ash’s mind and opened my eyes. Bracken was watching me. “You went into my head without me knowing it,” I said, feeling oddly invaded.
“When you read the emotions of another person without Reaching,” said Bracken, “are you invading them? The only difference is that through Reaching you can know their thoughts. You feel what they feel, think as they think,” she paused. “But Reaching doesn’t always bring truth, Holt. Often people’s thoughts are more confused than you can imagine; images of the past, of suffering, loss and pain, and of happy times, all wash through the mind. You must use your gift to see their thoughts, and use, too, the old ways, of watching, observing and asking.”
“It feels wrong to be there without them knowing I am there.”
“You are not influencing their thoughts,” said Bracken. “You are not harming them. But yes, the power to Reach comes with responsibility. You cannot use what you find in someone’s thoughts against them. If I enter the mind of another, I use what I find to benefit the village. If I feel fear, I know to try to calm them, if I find happiness, I try to expand on it. I do not control our people, but my link to their thoughts and feelings is valuable. It helps me to lead them.”
