Nightside the Long Sun

“I’ll interpret that for you in a moment,” he promised. “First I wish to explain to you that the authors of these Writings knew not only the state of the whorl in their time—and what it had been—but what was yet to come. I’m referring,” he paused, his eyes lingering on every face, “to the Plan of Pas. Everyone who understands the Plan of Pas understands the future. Am I making myself plain? The plan of Pas is the future, and to understand it and follow it is the principal duty of every man, and of every woman and each child.

“Knowing the Plan of Pas, as I said, the Chrasmatists knew what would best serve us each time this book would be opened—what would most firmly set your feet and mine upon the Aureate Path.”

Silk paused again to study the youthful faces before him; there was a flicker of interest here and there, but no more than a flicker. He sighed.

“Now we return to the lines themselves. The first, ‘Are ten birds to be had for a song?’ bears three meanings at least. As you grow older and learn to think more deeply, you’ll learn that every line of the Writings bears two meanings or more. One of the meanings here applies to me personally. I’ll explain that meaning in a moment. The other two have application to all of us, and I’m going to deal with them first.

“To begin, we must assume that the birds referred to are of the singing kind. Notice that in the next line, when the singing kind isn’t intended, that is made plain. What then, is signified by these ten singing birds? Children in class—that is to say yourselves—provide an obvious interpretation, surely. You’re called upon to recite for the good sibyls who are your teachers, and your voices are high, like the twitterings of songbirds. To buy something for a song is to buy it cheaply. The meaning, as we see, is: is this multitude of young scholars to be sold cheaply? And the answer is clearly, no. Remember, children, how much Great Pas values, and tells us over and over again that he values, every living creature in the whorl, every color and kind of berry and butterfly—and human beings above all. No, birds are not to be sold for a song; birds are precious to Pas. We don’t sacrifice birds and other animals to the immortal gods because they are of no value, do we? That would be insulting to the very gods.

“‘Are ten birds to be had for a song?’ No. No, you children are not to be sold cheaply.”

He had their interest now. Everyone was awake, and many were leaning forward in their seats. “For the second, we must consider the second line as well. Notice that ten singing birds might easily produce, not ten, but tens of thousands of songs.” For a moment the picture filled his mind as it had once, perhaps, filled that of the long-dead Chrasmologic author: a patio garden with a fountain and many flowers, its top covered with netting—bulbuls, thrushes, larks, and goldfinches, their voices weaving a rich fabric of melody that would stretch unbroken through decades and perhaps through a century, until the netting rotted and the birds flew free at last.

And even then, might they not return at times? Would they not surely return, darting through rents in the ruined netting to drink at that tinkling fountain and nest in the safety of the patio garden, their long concerto ended yet continued beyond its end, as the orchestra plays when the audience is leaving a theater? Playing on and on for the joy of the music, when the last theater-goer has gone home, when the yawning ushers are snuffing the candles and the guttering footlights, when the actors and actresses have washed away their makeup and changed back into the clothing they ordinarily wear, the plain brown skirts and trousers, drab blouses and tunics and coats worn to the theater, worn to work as so many other drab brown garments, as plain as the bulbuls’ brown feathers, were worn to work?

“But if the birds are sold,” Silk continued (actors and actresses, theater and audience, garden, fountain, net, and songbirds all banished from his consciousness), “how are songs to be had? We, who were so rich in songs, are now left poor. It will not help us, as the foreknowing authors point out in the next line, to daub a raven, smearing a black bird with the delicate beauties of the lark or the decent brown of the bulbul. Not enough, even, to gild it like a goldfinch. It is still a raven.”