file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/David%20Zindell%20-%20Shanidar.txt

Shanidar
a novelette
by David Zindell

I have heard the eschatologists deny the future of our kind. Man, they say, is a bridge between
ape and superman, a rusty old bridge that we can neither preserve nor restore, any more than we
can stop the stars beyond the Vild from exploding or turn the snows of deep winter into rain. For
man, or for a man, there can be no new beginnings. The story I tell here is a story of restoration
and resurrection, of how the philosophers of this doomed city were both right and wrong, a story,
if you will, of endings and beginnings which sometimes are, as old men such as I well know, one
and the same thing.

For me, the end of civilization came on the seventieth night of my fiftieth--or was it fifty-
first?--deep winter in this City of Pain. Icefall, some called it, or Unreal City, city of lights
and mists, the topological and, some say, spiritual center of a thousand decaying worlds. The
eschatologists called it Neverness, which means, I think, "Last City" or "Lost City." I prefer the
latter name, though it isn't names that matter. What matters is ice and snow and cold so deep that
your breath shatters into ice crystals on the hard air, and flesh -- should any man be foolish
enough to let the air of this forsaken city touch his naked flesh -- flesh turns to stone as you
watch. What matters is men who deny the importance of flesh, men who seek new beginnings.

He came into my cutting shop on a quiet night when the air was black and still, the only sound the
far-off hissing and humming of the machines as they hovered over the city streets, melting and
smoothing the ice for the following day. He was a pale young man with brown, lively eyes beneath
the white hood of his parka, and he wore a beard so dense and black that you would have thought
him born on Gehenna or Sheydveg and not, as he claimed, on Summerworld where the men are nearly
hairless and their skin is as dark as coffee. With his heavy brows and large, muscular face he
nearly had the look of the Alaloi which had been the fashion -- you will presently understand why -
- some twenty years ago. As he stood there in the stone hallway knocking the slush from his
skates, he explained that he had need of my services. "You are Rainer, the cutter?" he asked me in
a low, conspiratorial voice. I told him that was what the people of the city called me. "I want
you to use all your skills," he said. "I want to become an Alaloi."

I led him into my tearoom where he ejected the blades from his skates and flopped his dripping
mittens on top of the marble table which I had imported from Urradeth at great cost. And though I
didn't feel much like playing the host -- my white tunic was spattered with blood and brains and I
had matters to attend to -- I offered him kvass or coffee and was surprised that he chose coffee.

"Kvass fogs the brain," he said, ignoring the frescoes on the stone walls around him and staring
me in the eyes. "Drink makes men forget their purpose."

I sent for the domestic and I asked the young man, "And your purpose is to look like an Alaloi?"

He shook his head. "My purpose is to become an Alaloi. Completely."

I laughed and I said, "You know I can't do that; you know the law. I can change your flesh as you
please but -- "

"What about Goshevan?"

"Goshevan!" I shouted. "Why do the young men always come asking about Goshevan?" The domestic came
and I embarrassed myself by shouting out an order for coffee and kvass. As it rolled away, I said,
"There are more stories told about Goshevan than dead stars in the Vild. What do you know about
Goshevan?"

"I know that he wanted what I want. He was a man with a dream who -- "

"He was a dreamer! Do you want to know about Goshevan? I'll tell you the story that I tell all the
young men who come to me seeking nightmares. Are you sitting comfortably? Then listen well..."

The domestic brought our drink bubbling in two of those huge, insulated pots that they blow on
Fostora. It clumsily poured the dark liquids into our delicate marble cups as I told the young man
the story of Goshevan:


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"There lived on Summerworld a young noble who took a greater interest in antiques and old books --
some say he had been to Ksandaria and bribed the librarians into selling him part of the Kyoto
collection of Old Earth -- than he did in managing his estates. He was an erudite man who claimed
that the proper study of man was man -- not how to produce five tons more coffee per cubage. One
day he tired of his life and said, 'My s-sons are weak-faced maggots who exist on the diseased
flesh of this rotten civilization. They p-plot with my wives against me and laugh as my wives
sleep with other men.' And so Goshevan sold his estates, freed his slaves, and told his family
they would have to make their living by the sweat of their hands and the inspiration of their
brains. He paid for a passage on a Darghinni long ship and made his way toward the Vild.

"Now everyone knows the Darghinni are tricksters and so is it any wonder they didn't warn him of
the laughing pools on Darkmoon? Well, warn him they didn't, and Goshevan spent two seasons on that
dim, lukewarm planet coughing at the lungmelt in his chest while the surgeons painstakingly cut
the spirulli from his muscles and waited and watched and cut some more.

"When he was well, he found a Fravashi trader who was willing to take him to Yarkona; on Yarkona
he shaved his head and wrapped his body in rags so that the harijan pilgrims he befriended there
would allow him a corner on one of their sluggish prayer ships in which to float. And so, gray of
hair and stinking of years of his own sweat and filth, he came to Neverness like any other seeker.

"Though it was late midwinter spring, and warm for that season, he was stunned by the cold and
dazzled by the brightness of our city. And so he paid too much money for snow goggles and the
finest of shagshay furs lined with silk belly. 'The streets are colored ice,' he said
disbelievingly, for the only ice he had ever seen had been brought to him in exotic drinks by his
slaves. And he marvelled at the purples and greens of the glissades and the laughing children who
chased each other up and down the orange and yellow glidderies on ice skates. The silvery spires
and towers were frozen with the ever present verglas of that season, scattering the white spring
light so that the whole city gleamed and sparkled in a most disconcerting manner. 'There is beauty
here,' he said. 'The false beauty of artifice and a civilization gone to rot.' And so, dressed in
deep winter furs and wobbling on his newly bought skates, he struck out into the streets to preach
to the people.

In the great square outside the Hofgarten where the people of the Unreal City, high and low, meet
and take their refreshment, the scryers, eschatologists, and cantors as well as the harijan,
splicers and whores, he said, 'I s-speak to that inside you which is less than m-man but also m-
more.' And he raged because no one would listen to a short, overdressed farsider who stuttered and
could barely stand on his skates. 'You p-pilots,' he said, 'you are the p-pride of the galaxy! You
travel from Simoom to Urradeth and on to Jacaranda in less time than the Darghinni need to prepare
the first of eighteen Jumps from Summerworld to Darkmoon. You penetrate the Vild, lost in your
mathematics and dreamtime and tell yourself you have seen something of the ineffable and eternal.
But you have forgotten how to take pleasure in a simple flower! You foreswear marriage and
children and thus you are more and less than men!'

"When the pilots turned away from him to drink their kvass and eiswein, he told the historians and
fabulists that they knew nothing of the true nature of man. And they, those haughty professionals
of our city, snubbed him and went on talking about Gaiea and Old Earth as if he were invisible. So
Goshevan spoke to the programmers and holists, the Fravashi aliens and Friends of God, the
harijan, the wormrunners, the splicers, and at last, because he was filled with a great sadness
and longing, he zipped up his furs and went deep into the Farsiders' Quarter where he might pay
for the company of a friendly ear.

"Because he was lonely and had been without a woman for many years, he took his pleasure among the
whores of the lesser glidderies, which at that time were stained crimson and were narrow and
twisted like snakes. Because his soul was empty he smoked toalache and awoke one fine morning to
find himself in bed with four courtesans from Jacaranda. They asked him if all dark little men
were as potent as he and advised him that the joys of conjoining with the alien Friends of Man
were such that no man who had known only women could comprehend them. Goshevan, horrified at what
he had done and forgetting where he was, began swearing and shouting and ordered that the
courtesans be sold as field slaves. He threw a bag of diamonds at them, clipped in the blades to
his skates, and raced up and down the back glissades for two days before he came to his right
mind."


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I paused here in my story to refill our cups. The young man was staring at me intently, watching
my every move with those piercing brown eyes and, I felt, stripping my words bare for lies. The
room was very quiet and cold; I could hear his slow, even breathing as he nodded his head and
asked, "And then?"

"And then Goshevan made a decision. You see, he had hoped to win people over to his dream, which
was to go out into the wasteland and live as what he called 'natural man.' The Alaloi, of course,
had been his model. When he found he could not emulate them, he decided to join them."

"A noble vision," the young man said.

"It was insane!" I half-shouted "Who were these Alaloi he so admired? Dreamers and madmen they
were -- and still are. They came to this world on the first wave of the swarming, when Old Earth
was young and, some say, as radioactive as plutonium. Cavemen! They wanted to be cavemen! So they
back-mutated their chromosomes, destroyed their ship, and went to live in the frozen forests. And
now their great-grandchildren's great-great-grandchildren hunt mammoths for meat and die long
before they've seen their hundredth winter."

"But they die happy," the young man said.

"Who knows how they die?" I said to him. "Goshevan wanted to know. He sought me out because it was
said that once as a journeyman I had pioneered the operation he wanted, cutting on my very own
self to prove my worth as a flesh changer. 'Make me into an Alaloi,' he begged me, in this very
room where we presently drink our coffee and kvass. And I told him, 'Go to any of the cetics in
this quarter and they will cure you of your delusions.' And he said, 'I will p-pay you ten million
talanns!' But his farsider money was worthless in the Unreal City and I told him so. 'Diamonds,'
he said. 'I've two thousand carats of Yarkona bluestars.' 'For that price,' I said, 'I can add
eight inches to your spine or make you into a beautiful woman. I can lighten your skin and make
your hair as white as a Jacaranda courtesan's.' Then he looked at me cunningly and said, 'I'll
trade information for your services: I know the fixed-points of Agathange.' I laughed at him and
asked, 'How is it you know what the pilots of our city have been seeking for three thousand
years?'

"Well, it happened that he did know. With the riches from the sale of his estates, he had bought
the secret of the location of that fabled world from a renegade pilot he had met on Darkmoon. I
consulted our city archives: the librarians were very excited. They sent a young pilot to verify
my information, and I told Goshevan we might have to wait two or three hundred days before we
would know.

"Ten thousand city disks his information was worth! The pilot who rediscovered Agathange was very
good. Phased into his light ship, the Infinite Sloop, proving the theorems of probabilistic
topology -- or whatever it is that our famous pilots do when they wish to fall through the space
that isn't space -- he rushed through the fallaways, fenestering from window to window with such
precision and elegance that he returned from Agathange in forty days.

"'You can be a rich man,' Goshevan said to me on a clear, sparkling day of false winter. 'Do as I
ask and all the disks are yours.'

"I hesitated not for a moment. I took him into the changing room and I began to cut. It was a
challenge, I lied to myself, a test of knowledge and skill -- to a dedicated cutter, it wasn't
disks that mattered. I enlarged the basal bone of his jaw and stimulated the alveolar bone to
maximal growth so that his face could support the larger teeth I implanted. The angle of the face
itself I broadened so that there would be more room for a chewing apparatus strong enough to crack
marrowbones. And of course, since the face jutted out farther from the skull, I had to build up
the brow ridge with synthetic bone to protect the eyes. And though this shaping took the better
part of winter, it was only the beginning.

"As he writhed beneath my lasers and scalpels, all the while keeping his face as quiet and blank
as a snowfield, I went to work on his body. To support his huge new muscles -- which were grown by
the Fravashi deep-space method -- I built him new bones. I expanded the plates and spicules of the
honeycombed interior and strengthened the shafts and tendon attachments, adding as much as three
millimeters to the cortices of the longer bones such as his femur. I stippled his skin. I went


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beneath the dermis, excising most of his sweat glands to keep him from soaking his furs and
freezing to death at the first hint of false winter. Because his dark skin would synthesize too
little vitamin D to keep his bones calcified during the long twilight of deep winter, I inhibited
his melanocytes -- it is little known that all men, light or dark, have nearly the same number of
melanocytes -- I lightened his skin until he was as fair as a man from Thorskalle. The last thing
I did for him, or so I thought at the time, was to grow out his fine, almost invisible body hair
so that it covered him like brown fur from toe to eyebrow.

"I was very pleased with my handiwork and a little frightened because Goshevan had grown so strong
-- stronger, I think, than any Alaloi -- that he could have torn my clavicle from my chest, had he
so desired. But he was not pleased and he said, 'The most important thing there is, this thing you
didn't do.' And I told him, 'I've made you so that no one among the Alaloi could tell you from his
brother.' But he looked at me with his dark fanatic's eyes and asked me, 'And my s-sons, should my
s-seed by some chance be compatible with the Alaloi women, who will there be to call my weak-jawed
half-breed sons brother?' I had no answer for him other than a dispirited repeating of the law: 'A
man may do with his flesh as he pleases,' I said, 'but his DNA belongs to his species.' And then
he grabbed my forearm so tightly that I thought my muscles would split away from the bone and
said, 'Strong men make their own laws.'

"Then, because I felt a moment of pity for this strange man who only wanted what all men want --
which is a son after his own image and a few moments of peace -- I broke the law of the civilized
worlds. It was a challenge, do you understand? I irradiated his testes and bathed them with
sonics, killing off the sperm. I couldn't, of course, engage the services of a master splicer
because all my colleagues shunned such criminal activity. But I was a master cutter -- some will
tell you the best in the city -- and what is gene-splicing but surgery on a molecular scale? So I
went into his tubules and painstakingly sectioned out and mutated segments of his stem cells' DNA
so that the newly produced germ cells would make for him sons after his new image.

"When I finished this most delicate of delicate surgeries, which took the better part of two
years, Goshevan regarded himself in the mirror of my changing room and announced, 'Behold Homo
neandertalis. Now I am less than a man but also more.'

"'You look as savage as any savage,' I said. And then, thinking to scare him, I told him what was
commonly believed about the Alaloi. 'They live in caves and have no language,' I said. 'They are
bestially cruel to their children; they eat strangers, and perhaps each other.'

"Goshevan laughed as I said this and then he told me, 'On Old Earth during the holocaust century,
a neandertal burial site was discovered in a place called Shanidar near the Zagros mountains of
Irak. The archeologists found the skeleton of a forty-year-old m-man who was missing his lower
right arm. Shanidar I, they named him, and they determined he had lost his arm long before he
died. In the burial site of another neandertal, Shanidar IV, was the pollen of several kinds of
flowers, mixed in with all the bone fragments, pebbles and dust. The question I have for you,
Cutter, is: how savage could these people have been if they supported a cripple and honored their
dead with bright colored wildflowers?' So I answered, 'The Alaloi are not the same.' And he said,
'We will see, we will see.'

"Here I freely admit I had underestimated him. I had supposed him to be a lunatic or at best, a
self-deluder who hadn't a chance of getting ten miles away from our city. The covenant between the
founder of Neverness and the Alaloi allows us this single island -- large though it might be --
and to our city fathers, this covenant is holy. Boats are useless because of the icebergs of the
Sound, and the windjammers of would-be poachers and smugglers are shot from the air. Because I
couldn't picture Goshevan walking out onto the Starnbergersee when it freezes over in deep winter,
I asked him somewhat smugly how he intended to find his Alaloi.

"'Dogs,' he said. 'I will attach dogs to a sled and let them pull me across the frozen sea.' And I
asked, 'What are dogs?' 'Dogs are carnivorous mammals from Old Earth,' he said. 'They are like
human slaves, only friendly and eager to please.' And I said, 'Oh, you mean huzgies,' which is
what the Alaloi call their sled dogs. I laughed at him then and watched the white skin beneath his
hairy face turn red as if slapped by a sudden cold wind. 'And how will you smuggle such beasts
into our city?' I asked him.

"So Goshevan parted the hair of his abdomen to show me a thin band of hard white skin I had taken


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for an appendectomy scar. 'Cut here,' he said, and after nerve-blocking him, cut I did until I
came to a strange looking organ adjoining the large intestine where his appendix should have been.
'It's a false ovary,' he said. 'Clever are the breeders of Darkmoon. Come. Cut again and see what
I've brought with me.' I removed the false organ, which was red and slippery and made of one of
those pungently sweet-smelling bioplastics they synthesize on Darkmoon. I made a quick incision
and out spilled thousands of unfertilized ova and a sac of sperm floating in krydda suspension to
keep them fresh and vital. He pointed at the milky sperm sac and said, 'The seed of Darkmoon's
finest Mutts. I had originally hoped to train hundreds of sled teams.'

"How Goshevan brought the dogs to term and trained them, I do not know because I didn't see him
again for two winters. I thought perhaps that he'd been caught and banished or had his head split
open and had his plasm sucked out by some filthy slel necker.

"But as you will see, Goshevan was a resourceful man and hard to kill. He came again to my shop on
the deepest of deep winter nights when the air was so black and cold that even on the greatest of
the glissades and glidderies, The Run and The Way, nothing moved. In the hallway of my shop he
stood like a white bear, opening his shagshay furs and removing the balaclava from his face with
powerful, sweeping motions. I could see beneath his furs one of those black and gold, heated
kamelaikas that the racers wear on festival days when they wish to keep warm and still have their
limbs free for stroking. 'This is my noble savage?' I said to him as I fingered his wonderfully
warm undersuit. 'Even a f-fanatic such as I must make some concessions to survival,' he said. And
I asked him. 'What will you do when the batteries die?' He gave me a look that was at once fearful
and bursting with excitement, and he said, 'When the batteries die, I will either be dead or I
will have found my home.'

"He said goodbye to me and went out onto the gliddery where his dogs were up on their hind legs,
straining at their harnesses as they whined and barked and pushed their black noses into his
parka. From my window, I could see him fumbling with the stiff leather straps and thumping the
side of the lead dog with his huge mittens. He adjusted the load three times before he had it to
his liking, taking pains that the sacks of dog meal were balanced and tightly lashed to the wooden
frame. Then he was off, whistling in a curious manner as he glided around the corner of the
cetic's shop and disappeared into the cold."

The tearoom felt cold as I said these words. I noticed that the                          young man was pursing his narrow
lips tightly as he fiddled with his coffee. All at once, he let                          out his breath in a puff of steam
that seemed to hang in the air. "But that isn't the end of your                          story, is it, Cutter? You haven't
told the moral: how poor Goshevan died on the ice brokenhearted                          and disavowing his dream."

"Why is it you young people always want an ending? Does our universe come to an end or does it
fold in upon itself? Are the Agathanians at the end of human evolution or do they represent a new
species? And so on, and so on. Is there any end to the questions impatient young men ask?"

I took a quick gulp of the bitter kvass, burning my lips and throat so that I sat there dumbly
sucking in the cold air like an old bellows. "No, you are right," I gasped out. "That is not the
end of my story."

"Goshevan drove his dogs straight out onto the frozen Starnbergersee. Due west he went, running
fast across the wind-packed snow for six hundred miles. He came to the first of the Thousand
Islands and found mountains shrouded in evergreen forests where the thallows nested atop the steep
granite cliffs filling the air for miles with their harsh cawings. But he found no Alaloi, and he
urged his dogs carefully across the crevasses of the Fairleigh ice-shelf, back out onto the sea.

"Fifteen islands he crossed without finding a trace of a human being. He had been gone sixty-two
days when the crushing, deadly silent cold of deep winter began yielding to the terrible storms of
midwinter spring. During a snow so heavy and wet that he had to stop every hundred yards to scrape
the frozen slush from the steel runners of his sled, his lead dog, Yuri the Fierce, pulled them
into a crevasse. Though he dug his boots into the sloppy snow and held on to the sled with all his
strength, the pendulating weight of Yuri, Sasha and Ali as they swung back and forth over the lip
of the ice was such that he felt himself being slowly dragged into the crevasse. It was only by
the quick slashing of his hunting knife that he saved himself and the rest of his team. He cut the
harness from which his strongest dogs dangled and watched helplessly as they tried to dig their
black claws into the sides of the crevasse, all the while yelping pitifully as they fell to the


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ice below.

"Goshevan was stunned. Though the snow had stopped and he was within sight of the sixteenth and
largest of the Thousand Islands, he realized he could go no farther without rest. He erected his
tent and fed the dogs from the crumbly remnants of the last bag of food. There came a distant
hissing that quickly grew into a roar as the storm returned, blasting across the Starnbergersee
with such ferocity that he spent all that day and night tending the ice-screws of his tent so that
he wouldn't be blown away. For nine days he lay there shivering inside his sleeping sack as the
wind-whipped ice crystals did their work. By the tenth day, the batteries to his heated kamelaika
were so low that he threw them in disgust against the shredded, useless walls of his tent. He dug
a cave in the snow and pulled the last two of his starving dogs into the hole so that they might
huddle close and keep each other warm. But Gasherbrum the Friendly, the smartest of his dogs, died
on the eleventh day. And on the morning of the twelfth day, his beloved Kanika, whose paws were
crusted with ice and blood, was as still as a deep winter night.

"When the storm broke on the fifteenth day, Goshean was so crazy with thirst that he burned his
frostbitten lips upon the metal cup in which he was melting snow. And though he was famished and
weak as a snow worm, he could not bring himself to eat his dogs because he was both father and
mother to them, and the thought of it made him so sick he would rather have died.

"From the leather and wood of his sled he fashioned a crude pair of snowshoes and set out across
the drifts for a huge blue and white mountain he could see in the distance puncturing the sky.
Kweitkel it was called, as he would later learn. Kweitkel, which meant 'white mountain' in the
language of the Devaki, who were the tribe of Alaloi who found him dying in the thick forests of
its eastern slope.

"His rescuers -- five godlike men dressed in angelic white, or so it seemed to his fevered,
delirious mind -- brought him to a huge cave. Some days later he came awake to the wonderful
smells of hot soup and roasting nuts. He heard soft voices speaking a strange, musical language
that was a delight to his ear. Two children, a boy and a girl he thought, were sitting at the
corners of the luxurious fur which covered him, peeking at him coyly through the spread-out
fingers of their little hands and giggling.

A man with great shoulders and a beard as black as a furfly came over to him. Between his blunt,
scarred fingers he held a soup bowl made from yellowed bone and scrimshawed with intricate figures
of diving whales. As Goshevan gulped the soup, the man asked, 'Marek? Patwin? Olorun? Nodin?
Mauli?' Goshevan, half-snowblind and weak in the head as he was, forgot that I had made him so
that no one among the Alaloi could tell him from his brothers. He thought he was being accused of
being an alien so he shook his head furiously back and forth at the sound of each name. At last,
when Lokni, which was the big man's name, had given up trying to discover the tribe to which he
belonged, Goshevan pointed to his chest and said, 'I am man. I'm just a man.' 'Iaman,' Lokni
repeated. 'Ni luria la Devaki.' And so it was that Lokni of the Devaki welcomed Goshevan of the
Iaman tribe to his new home.

"Goshevan gained strength quickly, gorging upon a salty cheese curdled from shagshay milk and the
baldo nuts the Devaki stored against the storms of midwinter spring. And though Katerina, who was
Lokni's wife, offered him thick mammoth steaks running red with the life's blood beneath a
charcoaled crust, he would eat no meat. He, who all his life had eaten only soft, decerebrated
cultured meats, was horrified that such gentle people took their nourishment from the flesh of
living animals. 'I don't think I can teach these savages the few right-actioned ways of civilized
man,' he said to himself. 'Why should they listen to me, a total stranger?' And so for the first
time since Summerworld he came to question the wisdom of what he had done.

"By the time Goshevan had put on fifty pounds of new muscle, the storms of midwinter spring had
given way to the fine weather of false winter. There came cool sunny days; the occasional powdery
snows were too light to cover the alpine fireweed and snow dahlia which blanketed the lower slopes
of Kweitkel. The thallows were molting and the furflys laying eggs. For Tuwa, the mammoth, came
calving time, and for the Devaki, it was time to slaughter mammoth.

"Goshevan was sick. Though he had quickly learned the language of the Devaki, and learned also to
tolerate his body lice and filthy hair, he did not know how he could kill an animal. But when
Lokni unsmilingly slapped a spear into his hand, he knew he would have to hunt with the eighteen


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other men, many of whom had come to wonder about his strange ways and questioned his manhood.

"At first the hunt went well. In one of the lovely valleys of Kweitkel's southern foothills, they
spotted a mammoth herd gorging on arctic timothy and overripe, half-fermented snow apple. The
great hairy beasts were carousing and drunkenly trampling through the acres of alpine fireweed
which were everywhere aflame with bright reds and oranges and so beautiful that Goshevan wanted to
cry. They drove the trumpeting mammoths down the valley and into a bog where three calves fell
quickly beneath flint-tipped spears. But then Lokni mired himself near the edge of the bog, and
Wemilo was trampled by an enraged cow. It fell to Goshevan to help Lokni. Though he reached out
with his spear into the bog until his shoulder joint popped, he failed to close the distance. He
heard voices and shouting and thunder and felt the ground moving beneath him. As he looked up to
see the red-eyed cow almost upon him, he realized that the men were praying for his ghost, for it
was known that no single man could stand against Tuwa's charge.

"Goshevan was terrified. He cast his spear at the mammoth's eye with such a desperate force that
the point drove into the brain, and the great beast fell like a mountain. The Devaki were stunned.
Never had they seen such a thing, and Haidar and Alani, who had doubted his bravery, said that he
was more than a man. But Goshevan knew his feat was the result of blind luck and my surgery, and
thus he came to despise himself because he had killed a magnificent being and was therefore less
than a man.

"In the cave that night, the Devaki made a feast to mourn the passing of Tuwa's anima and to wish
Wemilo's ghost enlightenment on the other side of day. Lokni sliced his own ear off his head with
a sharp obsidian flake and laid the bloody flap of skin on Wemilo's cold forehead so that he might
always hear the prayers of the tribe. Katerina bound her husband's wound with feather moss while
the other women scattered snow dahlias over Wemilo's crushed body.

"Then Lokni turned to Goshevan and said, 'A man, to be a man, must have a woman, and you are too
old to take a virgin bride.' He went over to Lara, who was sobbing over Wemilo's grave. 'Look at
this poor woman. Long ago her father, Arani, deserted her to live with the hairless people of the
Unreal City. She has no brothers. And now Wemilo dances with the stars. Look at this poor
beautiful woman whose hair is still black and shiny and whose teeth are straight and white. Who
will be a man to this woman?'

"Goshevan looked at Lara and though her eyes were full of tears, they were also hot and dark, full
of beauty and life. He felt very excited and said, 'A man would be a fool not to desire this
woman.' And then he thought to comfort her by saying, 'We'll be married and have many fine
children to love.'

"A hush fell over the cave. The Devaki looked at each other as if they couldn't believe their
ears. And Ushi wondered aloud, 'How can he not know that Lara has three daughters and one son?'
'Of course I know,' Goshevan said. 'It only means she is very fertile and will have no trouble
bearing me sons.' Then Ushi let out a cry and began tearing at her hair. Katerina hid her eyes
beneath her hand and Lokni asked, 'How can it be, Goshevan, that you do not know the Law?' And
Goshevan, who was angry and confused, replied, 'How can I know your law when I'm from a faraway
tribe?' Lokni looked at him and there was death in his eyes. 'The Law is the Law,' he said, 'and
it is the same for every Alaloi. It can only be that the storm stole away your memory and froze
part of your soul.' And then, because Lokni didn't want to kill the man who had saved his life and
was about to marry his sister, he explained the Law.

"'She may have but one more child. A woman may have five children: One child to give to the
Serpent's Breath of deep winter, one child for the tusks of Tuwa, the mammoth. One child for the
fever that comes in the night.' Lokni paused a moment as the Law passed from lip to lip, and all
the tribe except Goshevan were chanting: 'A boy to become a man; a girl to become Devaki, Mother
of the People.'

Lokni cupped his hand around the back of Goshevan's neck and squeezed as he said, 'If we become
too many, we will kill all the mammoth and have to hunt silk belly and shagshay for food. And when
they are gone, we will have to cut holes in the ice of the sea so to spear the seals when they
come up to breathe. When the seals are gone, we will be forced to murder Kikilia, the whale, who
is wiser then we and as strong as God. When the animals are gone, we will dig tangleroot and eat
the larvae of furflys and break our teeth as we gnaw the lichen from the rocks. At last we will be


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so many, we will murder the forests to plant snow apple so that men will come to lust for land,
and some men will come to have more land than others. And when there is no land left, the stronger
men will get their sustenance from the labor of weaker men, who will have to sell their women and
children so that they might have mash to eat. The strongest men will make war on each other so
that they might have still more land. Thus we will become hunters of men and be doomed to hell in
living and hell on the other side. And then, as it did on Earth in the time before the swarming,
fire will rain from the sky, and the Devaki will be no more.'

"And so Goshevan, who really wanted only one son, came to accept the Law of the Alaloi, for who
knew better than he the evils of owning slaves and lying with whores?

"He married Lara at the end of false winter. In her long black hair, she replaced the snow dahlias
of her mourning time with the fire flowers of the new bride and set to sewing him the new shagshay
parka he would need when deep winter came. Each Devaki made them a wedding gift. Eirene and Jael,
the two giggling children who had first greeted him so many months before, gave him a pair of
mittens and a carved tortrix horn for him to fill with the potent beer that was brewed each winter
from mashed tangleroot. His finest gift, a work of breathtaking art and symmetry, was the spear
that Lokni gave him. It was long and heavy and tipped with a blade of flint so sharp that it cut
through cured mammoth hide as easily as cheese."

I finished my drink, pausing a moment to catch my breath. The sounds the young man's marble cup
made against the cold hard table seemed gritty and overloud. I smelled cinnamon and honey; a
minute later the domestic served raisin bread spread with honey-cheese and brought us fresh pots
of coffee. Outside the tearoom, I could hear the soft clack-clack of steel skates against the ice
of the gliddery. I wondered who would be so foolish, or desperate, to be out on such a night. The
young man took my hand in his, staring at me so intently that I had to look away. "And Goshevan?"
he asked. "He was happy with the beautiful Lara? He was happy, wasn't he?"

"He was happy," I said, trying to slip my old hand from the young man's grip. "He was so happy he
came to regard his body lice as his 'little pets' and didn't care that he would have to pass the
rest of his days without a bath. His stuttering, which had embarrassed him all his life and caused
him great shame, came to a sudden end as he found the liquid vowels and smooth consonants of the
Devaki language rolling easily off his tongue. He loved Lara's children as his own and loved Lara
as only a desperate and romantic man can love a woman. Though she had none of the exotic skills of
the courtesans with whom he had been so familiar, she loved him with such a strength and passion
that he came to divide his life into two parts: the time before Lara, which was murky and dim and
full of confused memories, and the time after, which was full of light and joy and laughter. So it
happened that when, the following midwinter spring, she pointed to her belly and smiled, he knew
with a sureness that he had not spent his life in vain and was as happy as a man could be.

The deep powder snows of winter were falling as Lara swelled like the ripened baldo nuts which the
women picked and stored in great barrels staved with mammoth ribs and covered with mammoth hides.
'It will be a boy,' she said to him one night in early deep winter when the slopes of Kweitkel
were silvery with the light of the moons. 'When I was carrying my girls I was sick every morning
of the three seasons of growing. But with this one I wake up as hungry as Tuwa in midwinter
spring.'

"When her time came, Katerina shooed Lokni and Goshevan, uncle and father, to the front of the
cave where they waited while the women did their secret things. It was a night of such coldness
that old Amalia said comes but twice every hundredyear. To the north, they could see green
curtains of light hanging down from the black starry sky. 'The firefalls,' Lokni said. 'Sometimes
they are faint and green as you see and other times as red as blood. The spirits of Wemilo and all
our ancestors light the deep winter night to give us hope against the darkness.' And then he
pointed at a bright triangle of stars twinkling brightly above the eastern horizon. 'Wakanda,
Eanna, and Farfara,' he said. 'Men live there, I think. Shadow men without bodies. It is said they
have no souls and take their nourishment from light.' And so they sat there for a long time
shivering in their shagshay furs, talking of the things men talk about when they are full of
strange longing and wonder at the mystery of life.

"There came a squalling from the cave. Goshevan clapped Lokni on the back and started laughing.
But the cries of his newborn son were followed by a low wailing and then a whole chorus of women
crying. He felt a horrible fear and leapt to his feet even as Lokni tried to hold him back.


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"He ran to the warmest, deepest part of the cave where the men were not supposed to go. There, in
the sick yellow light of the oil-stones, on a blood-soaked newl fur, he saw his son lying all wet
and slippery and pink between Lara's bent legs. Katerina knelt over the struggling infant, holding
a corner of the gray fur over his face. Goshevan knocked her away from his son so that she fell to
the floor, winded and gasping for air. As Haidar and Palani grabbed his arms, Lokni came to him
and with such a sadness that his voice broke and tears ran from his eyes, he said, 'It is the Law,
my friend. Any born such as he must immediately make the journey to the other side.' Then
Goshevan, who had been full of blind panic and rage, looked at his son. He saw that growing from
the hips were two tiny red stumps, twitching pathetically where they should have been kicking. His
son had no legs. And to Lokni, who had gathered up the baby in his arms, he said, 'The Devaki do
not kill each other.' And Lokni said, 'A baby is not a Devaki until he is named.' Then Goshevan
raged so that Einar and Pauli had to come hold him as well. 'I name him Shanidar,' he said.
'Shanidar, my son, whom I love more than life.' But Lokni shook his head because life is so hard
the Devaki do not name their children until four winters have passed. With his forefinger, he made
a star above the screaming baby's head and went out to bury him in the snow.

Lokni, whose white parka was stained crimson with frozen blood, returned alone with his hands
shielding his eyes as if to protect them from false winter's noonday sun. Goshevan broke free and
picked up the mammoth spear which had been his wedding gift. He threw it at Lokni in desperation,
too blind with pain and fear to see the point enter his stomach and emerge from his back. And he
ran outside to find his son.

"An hour later he returned. And in his arms, frozen as hard as a mammoth leg, he held his quiet,
motionless son. 'Lara,' he said. And like a drunkard, he stumbled towards his wife. But Lara, who
had seen what had passed between her legs and what her husband had done, opened the great artery
of her throat with her hide scraper before he could get too close. And when he cried out that he
loved her and would die if she died, she told him that the essence of the Law is that life must be
lived with honor and joy or not lived at all. So Lara died as he watched, and the best part of him
died with her. Knowing that his life had come to an end, he unknotted the ties of his parka,
exposing the black matted hair of his chest so that Einar and Alani and the others might more
easily spear him. But Goshevan had learned nothing. Lokni, lying on his back with the blood
running from a great hole in his abdomen, said, 'Go back to the City, foolish man. We will not
kill you; we are not hunters of men.'

"They gave Goshevan a team of snarling dogs and a barrel of baldo nuts and sent him out onto the
ice. And he, who should have died a hundred times, did not die because he was full of the madness
which protects desperate men, and a new idea had come into his head. So he made his way back
across the ice of the Starnbergersee. This time, he ate his dogs when they died and didn't care
that his beard was crusted with their black, frozen blood. He came once again to Neverness as a
seeker; he came to my cutting shop, wretched, starving, covered with filth and dead, frostbitten
skin rotting on his face. He came to me and said, 'I seek life for my son.'

"He stood in this very room, above this table. From a leather bag full of snow and rimed with
frost, he removed a twisted, pinkish lump of frozen meat and laid it on the table. 'This is my
son,' he said. 'Use all your skills, Cutter, and return my son to me.'

"Goshevan told me his story, all the while cradling in his arms the leather bag to which he had
returned his poor son's corpse. He was mad, so mad that I had to shout and repeat myself over and
over before he would cease his ranting. 'There isn't a single cryologist in the city,' I told him,
'who can bring your son back to life.'

"But he never understood me. He went out onto the glidderies and glissades, telling his story to
every cutter, splicer and cetic who would listen to him. Thus it came to be known throughout the
city that I had tampered with his DNA and tampered badly. I was brought before the akashics and
their accursed optical computers which laid bare my brain and recorded my actions and memories for
all to see. 'If you ever again break the laws of our city,' the master akashic told me, 'you will
be banished.' To ensure that I would obey the law, he ordered me to submit to their computer on
the first day of each new year 'so long as you live.' Curiously, although I had scandalized most
of the city, my 'Neandertal Procedure' became immediately popular among the many farsiders who
come to Neverness seeking to be other than what they are. For many years thereafter, the
glidderies of our quarter were filled with squat hairy supermen who looked as if they could have


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been Goshevan's brother.

And Goshevan, poor Goshevan -- though he pleaded with and threatened every cryologist in the
quarter -- death is death, and no one could do more for him than give him a hot meal and a little
toalache and send him on his way. The last I heard of him, he was trying to bribe his way to
Agathange, where, he said, the men were no longer men and miracles were free to anyone who would
surrender up his humanity. But everyone knows Agathanian resurrection is just a myth dreamed up by
some fabulist drunk with the fire of toalache, no more real than the telepaths of The Golcanda.
And Goshevan disappeared into the back alleys of our Unreal City, no doubt freezing to death one
dark winter's night. And there, my young friend, the story ends."

Painfully, I stood up to indicate that our conversation was over. But the young man kept to his
chair, staring at me silently. His eyes grew so intense, so dark and disturbed, I thought that,
perhaps, all men who desire the unobtainable must be touched with some degree of madness. I felt
the acids of the kvass and coffee burning in my stomach as I said, "You must go now. You
understand now, you understand why."

Suddenly, he slapped the table. The tearoom echoed with the loud rattle of teacups and the young
man's trembling voice. "There the story does not end," he said. "This is the end, the true end of
Goshevan's story that they tell in the silver mines of Summerworld."

I smiled at him then because the story of Goshevan is now a legend, and the endings to his story
are as many as the Thousand Islands. Although I was certain to be bored by one of the fabulist
myths in which Goshevan returns triumphantly to the Patwin or Basham or some other tribe of the
Alaloi, one can never be truly certain. As I am a collector of such myths, I said, "Tell me your
ending."

"Goshevan found Agathange," the young man said with conviction. "You yourself said he was hard to
kill, Cutter. He found Agathange where the men -- I guess I really shouldn't call them men because
they were many-sexed and looked more like seals than men -- where the Agathanians brought Shanidar
back to life. They fitted him with mechanical legs stronger than real legs. They made him fifty
sets of replacement legs, in graduated lengths to accommodate his growth. They offered Goshevan
the peace of Agathange's oceans, the wisdom and bliss of cortically implanted bio-chips. But
Goshevan, he said he wasn't fit for an ice-world that was less than civilized and that he
certainly wasn't worthy of a water world that was beyond civilization. He thanked his hosts and
said, 'Shanidar will grow up to be a prince. I will bring him home to Summerworld where men such
as we belong.'

To Summerworld he came many years later as an old man with white hair and a stooped back. He
called upon the favor of his old friends, asking for the loan of rich delta land so that he could
reestablish his estates. But no one recognized him. They, those wily, arrogant lords swathed in
their white summer silks, they saw only an old madman -- who I guess must have looked more like a
beast to them than a man -- and a strange-looking boy with proscribed Agathanian legs. 'Goshevan,'
said Leonid the Just, who had once helped Goshevan put down Summerworld's forty-eighth servile
revolt, 'was as hairless as an elephant. He stuttered, too, if my poor memory serves me right.'
And then -- are you listening, Cutter? -- then Leonid ordered them sold into the silver mines.
Sondevan, the obese slavemaster, removed Shanidar's legs and strapped a cart to his abdomen so
that he could wheel himself along the steel tracks that led into the ground. And though Goshevan
was old, he was as strong as a water buffalo. They shoved a pick at him and set him hacking at a
vein of sylvanite. 'Goshevan,' said the slavemaster, 'was my father's name. He was small and weak
and let the Delta Lords buy his land for a tenth a talann per cubage. This ugly animal is not he.'

'The mines were cooler than the rice paddies, but they were hellishly hot compared with the frozen
forests of Kweitkel. Goshevan -- do you remember how you removed his sweat glands, Cutter? --
Goshevan lasted two hours before he keeled over from heatstroke and fell into delirium. But before
he died, he told his son the story of his birth and explained the Law of the Devaki. His last
words before the slavemaster's silver mallet caved in his head were, 'Go back!'

"So I've come back," the young man said. The cutting shop was silent around us. As I stood there
on the cold tile floor, I could hear the ragged hissing of my breath and taste the bittersweet
tang of coffee coating my tongue and teeth. Suddenly, the young man rose to his feet so quickly
that he bumped the table with his hip, sending one of my priceless teacups shattering against the


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floor. He opened his furs and dropped his trousers. There, badly fitted to his hips as if by some
ignorant apprentice cutter, I could see the prosthetic legs -- the kind they make badly on Fostora
or Kainan -- where they disappeared beneath reddened flaps of skin.

"I've come back to you, Grandfather," he said. "And you must do for me what you failed to do for
Goshevan, who was my father."

And there my story really and truly ends. I do not know if the young man who came to me was the
real Shanidar. I do not know if the story he told of Goshevan's death is really true. I prefer to
believe his story, though it isn't stories that matter. What matters is precision and skill, the
growing of new limbs for the legless and the altering, despite the law of civilization, the
tampering with a young man's DNA when the need to tamper and heal is great. What matters is men
who aren't afraid to change the shape and substance of their flesh so that they might seek out new
beginnings.

When, on the first day of midwinter spring, I am brought before the master akashic and banished
from my mysterious and beloved city, I will not seek out Agathange, tempting though the warmth of
their oceans might be. I am too old to take on the body of a seal; I do not wish for the wisdom of
cortically implanted biochips. To paraphrase the law: A man may do with his DNA as he pleases but
his soul belongs to his people. It is to my people, the Devaki, that I must return. I have
bitterly missed all these years the quiet white beauty of Kweitkel and besides, I must put flowers
on my daughter Lara's grave. I, Arani, who once came to Neverness from the sixteenth and largest
of the Thousand Islands like any other seeker, will take my grandson back across the frozen
Starnbergersee. And for Goshevan, child of my lasers and microscopes, for my poor, brave, restless
son-in-law I will pray as we pray for all who make the great journey: Goshevan, mi alasharia la
shantih Devaki, may your spirit rest in peace on the other side of day.


© David Zindell 1985, 2002.
This story was first published in L Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future (edited by Algis
Budrys, 1985).




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