Descending the
Ladder
A
fight broke out behind the schoolhouse, and Druer,
the teacher, had to go out to the playground and break it up. He arose with some anger from his desk,
stalked through the empty crowd of students’ tables, and stamped into the coatroom
at the back of the schoolhouse. His
anger, however, vanished as he opened the coatroom door. He saw from the doorway that the fight was
over. The two combatants now hung from
the massive hands of Mr. Thornapple.
“Aren’t you supposed to be controlling these
kids?” roared Mr. Thornapple. “What do
we pay you a salary for? To sit at your
desk while these kids turn into animals?”
Mr.
Thornapple was a parent and a member of the school board and a man broad of
shoulder and thick of chest and fully two meters tall. Druer, the schoolteacher, ran to him and
stood before him, well aware that he was a young beanpole and a bit of a runt
besides. Thornapple loosed the two
scoundrels and walked away from the children.
Druer trotted after him. When the
two were well away from the students, Thornapple held his hands out palm to palm, fingers splayed.
“Listen,”
he explained calmly. “I’m taking several
of the men over to Wistholm. There’s some sort of trouble. Can’t raise them on the
radio. Now don’t tell the
children anything. Have a school day
just like normal, but when these kids go home, you go into the village and join
the others at the hall.”
Druer nodded.
“Any idea what’s going on?”
“No,
but it’s Wisthom. There seems to be a real handful of
wrongheaded types over there, getting all sorts of funny ideas, and that’s
bound to raise trouble sooner or later.”
Druer smiled, but briefly. He had to keep it short. These backwoods types might be uneducated,
but they would write his first review.
That initial thrust could propel him back to the cities along the coast or
maybe even a government job, or it could stagnate him into
a life of muddling through village after village in low-esteem positions like
schoolmaster.
“Not wrongheaded, Mr. Thornapple, just
different. We don’t all have to think the same.”
“Hmm,”
the big man responded. “Some ways of
thinking are just wrong, whatever you learned in that big-city
university.”
“Well,”
Druer responded, now having regained his feet, “I’m
sure that you’ll find that Wistholm’s problems are no
great matter. I contacted the teacher there
the day before yesterday, and he mentioned no great uprising anyway.”
When
Mr. Thornapple was safely away, Druer launched into a scolding, both of the
fighters and those who stood in the circle to egg them on. As his prattling went on, the little mob felt
the need to divert him. “Teacher!” Angelina
spurted out. “We saw a metamorphic on
the way to school today!”
“Oho!” Druer cried.
Little
Angelina was a sharp one for her age, and she knew just what would hook him, launch
him into an impromptu science lecture, make him forget about the fight. She was too young,
however, to know that throughout his lecture he would be looking for a bridge
to his favorite topic: the Earth Library.
Unlike
his students, Druer knew its import. The arrival of the Earth Library suddenly
brought an age of reason to their barbaric ancestors, and Druer reveled in
it.
Sometimes
he felt like an emissary of Earth. Of
course, he had never seen a human, except in the photographs and films of the
Earth Library. He and his students were not
remotely human. They were natives of the
planet Har, the lone inhabited world orbiting a star many times larger as the
Sun. Earth’s sun was hot, some six
thousand degrees Kelvin; Har’s sun wasn’t, it surface
less than four. Earth’s orbit took a
year; Har’s orbit took a generation. Earth’s orbit was circular; Har’s orbit wasn’t.
During
the long summer, the residents of Har reaped easy harvests; indolently drew
fish from lakes, rivers, and seas; led lives basking in the sunshine. It could make one lazy. But summer didn’t
last forever. Three times Mr. Druer had
experienced winter. His students had not
yet lived through one.
“It
was a sheep-har,” Angelina continued. “Its teeth were all wrong.”
“And
it wasn’t eating the grass,” another continued.
“It was watching us. It acted all wrong.”
“Not
wrong,” a boy named Harry corrected.
“Not wrong, just different.”
Druer tosseled
the boy’s hair. If he had not learned his mathematics well,
Harry had at least learned the principles of Earth. Harry was one of the boys in the fight, and the
dust of the playground still coated his face and hair.
“Better
wash up,” Druer said.
“Then you can join us inside.”
As
the students took their seats, Druer erased the four rivers of
“Oker doesn’t have a perfect orbit,” he began.
“Why not?” Harry
asked.
Druer paused.
“We
don’t know. Star systems develop out of
a disk of gasses. Some people think that
Har wasn’t part of that gas disk, but came along
later. So if
that is correct, our world was a passerby that got caught in the star’s gravity. Other people disagree; they think that Oker
formed here, but long ago the star spewed out a bunch
of junk and threw our world out of its perfect-circle orbit. But whatever the reason, for part of its
orbit, part of each and every orbit, we go way
out here.” Druer drew his circle
long. “What happens then?”
The
class was stone-faced. “The planet freezes,”
one of them said. “We have winter.”
“Right. What
happens to the plants?”
“They
put out seeds and shrivel up.” Druer
folded arms, nodded. They may not have
seen it yet, but they had heard about it all their lives.
“Ok,
what happens to the bugs?”
“Same thing.”
“Some
don’t die,” added another student. “Some
of them burrow down deep and sleep it.”
“That’s
right,” he said. “What about the bigger
animals?”
The
single word answer came: “Metamorphosis.”
Winter
came every fifty-seven years and lasted almost five, Earth time. Obviously, a herbivore
could not survive through the cold. Every
herbivore had to metamorphose into a predator.
The only food available during the long cold would be in storage or on
the hoof.
“I’ve
told you to observe the animals,” Druer reminded them. “Have they been storing up?”
The
children nodded.
Druer addressed Angelina and the smallest
ones: “The dens of the bear-har – where are they?”
“Under big rocks.”
“And the dens of the squirrel-har?”
“In the hollows of trees.”
“Yes! And those dens are stuffed
with nuts and roots and dried fruits.
They store up, just like we do.”
Then
he addressed the class at large. This
was the point in which he would bring in the Earth Library.
“These
days we can endure the winter quite comfortably. Agricultural machinery and farming methods from
the Earth Library enable us to produce a huge stockpile. Science from the Earth Library enables us to preserve
it. We don’t have to live as our
ancestors did two hundred years ago, before the Earth Library came. Back then the stored food never lasted. We could only put off the metamorphosis. Eventually, people had to follow the animals to
survive. They had to change into
predators. Today, the only problems that
threaten us are the bear-har, and they are only a
problem in remote villages like ours.”
“We wouldn’t have trouble with the bear-har,” Harry protested, “if we took the metamorphosis. We could fight `em
then.”
Druer chuckled. “Well, that’s fine, but I think you’ll find
few enough who will take you up on that offer.
No one willingly transforms these days.”
“I
think it would be exciting,” Harry said.
Druer glanced sharply to the lad – what an
odd comment. Although he had lived
through three long winters, he had never seen an individual embrace the metamorphosis.
Far off in a city somewhere, he knew,
some people needed pharmaceuticals to help control themselves, but no one willingly underwent the metamorphoses.
“You
don’t understand,” he said. “Before the
Earth Library arrived, our people went through a bloody struggle for survival every
winter. Life in the primitive was very
difficult. No one embraces the metamorphosis
anymore.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the metamorphosis,”
Harry said, “it’s what’s natural.”
“Nature,”
said Druer, quoting The African Queen, “is
what we were put on Earth to overcome.”
There
was a silence as the students all realized Mr. Druer’s mistake.
“We’re
not on Earth,” Harry came back.
Druer launched in a new direction.
“Look,”
he said, “it’s like we’re climbing a ladder from savagery to the stars. Earth gave us civilization, an end to the
bloodshed.”
“Earth
spilled plenty blood too,” Harry said, “and you told us that Earth sent out the
Library when their civilization was failing.”
“Well,”
Druer muddled, “I suppose that’s true.”
The
question remained unasked: why, then, should we pay any attention to it?
Harry
swept away Earth with a single sentence: “They were long ago and far away.”
Druer sighed.
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to
Hecuba? the
teacher thought.
“We’re
tired of hearing `bout Earth. Their ways
aren’t our ways,” Harry said. “They’re
aliens. How can Earth help us decide
about the metamorphosis? There’s nothing
like it on Earth.”
Druer, now less certain said, “The arctic and
the deep sea were the domains of the purely carnivorous.”
“But
the arctic and deep sea were that way all the time,” another student said. “There never was any metamorphoses.”
Druer suddenly felt vulnerable. He stood before them like a first-year
teacher.
“The
metamorphosis will make us strong,” Harry said with finality.
It’s the holiday break, Druer suddenly realized. It’s
their last day before the break; that’s why the fight
in the yard, all this backtalk.
He
was rescued by the bell. The students arose in a Pavlovian departure,
and Druer, surprised by the lateness of the hour, looked outside. It seemed the darkness coagulated abruptly around
the schoolhouse.
The
children crammed into the anteroom to get their coats and Druer sat wearily at
his desk. He shuffled through essays
without looking at them. He kicked his
hard leather shoes off. His feet breathed
again through the cotton of his stockings.
A light wind prowled around the little building.
He
heard a crash, as though ceramic were broken, and the thump of something soft
thrown up against the wall. Laughter followed, laughter and youngling’s feet running away. He arose from his chair and stepped to the
windows, but they scattered into the darkness of the forest.
They’ve broken something, he thought as he rose. They’ve
deliberately broken something.
He
stomped from his desk to the anteroom and jerked the door open violently. No one was there. The metal hooks were bare of coats. On the floor, a child’s greatcoat was spread out. Legs
protruded from beneath the cloth. And blood.
Blood
pooled on the wooden slats of the floor.
He had stepped directly into it. It
soaked through his stockings and up between his toes. Druer snatched the coat up. Angelina laid there, blinked her brown eyes
once, moved her mouth to an O. She stared upward and was still.
Druer reeled drunkenly. From the left of her abdomen down under her
navel, her blood-soaked dress had been ripped away. Her innards pushed outward through the wound,
the intestine’s soft resilience no longer contained by the pressure of intact,
inviolate skin. Naked, slippery with
blood and grease, the viscera slipped smoothly out and spilled onto her
dress. A thick trickle of saliva
dribbled out of her lips.
Druer threw himself to his feet and out the
door with a livid scream ready to leap from his mouth. It stayed there.
His
stockings made bloody tracks on the wood of the steps.
Below
him in the dusty, packed-earth of the playground were other tracks. Most of them were marred with blood. Each set led away on all fours. All but little Angelina had embraced the metamorphosis. In a flash, Druer knew what had happened in Wistholm, must be happening elsewhere across Har.
Their
society had descended the ladder.
The
walk home suddenly appeared very long, and very dark indeed.
Harry protested: “The animals do.”
“We are not animals.”
“There’s no difference.”
Druer’s answer was quick: “But
there is: An animal's mind serves its body: its brain helps it find food,
shelter, a mate. A person's brain does this
as well, but more often, it’s the other way around: a
person’s body serves its mind. Our feet
take us to a movie. Our hands find the
latest music on the net. With animals,
it’s only the other way.”
Oker was smaller, an orange
dwarf, an almost sun. It was almost large enough to heat Har, almost
enough to make it suitable for life. If
they had had to rely on Oker, no life would exist on
their planet. Fortunately, Oker had help, for as their planet orbited Oker, Oker in her turn orbited a great, red giant called
Girth. Girth was old, even for a
star. Its weakening gravity barely held
the star’s gasses together. Together, Oker and Girth produced enough heat to make their world a
paradise.