That night, the five of us held a council on the ridge. I related Kirinar's story to Limilt, Shisken, and Berel (feeling that Kirinar would not want to tell it again herself), as well as the circumstances of my grandfather's refusal to come to her aid. As I spoke, I watched their faces: Shisken, visibly and passionately outraged; Limilt, thoughtfully and judiciously weighing each fact as it came; Berel, his feelings as much a mystery to me as they had ever been.
«So there you have it,» I said at last. «On the one hand, an evident necessity of justice; on the other, an insoluble political dilemma. If any of you know what ought to be done, I would be glad if you would enlighten me.»
«We could capture your grandfather during his next visit and hold him prisoner in the Refuge until the Council agreed to Kirinar's return,» Shisken suggested.
Limilt groaned. «Someday, Shisken-Atomal-Breecai,» he said, «I would like to open your mind up to sight-seers and charge admission. I think people would pay handsomely to sojourn in such a serenely uncomplicated world.»
«What is that supposed to mean?» demanded Shisken, who had never grown fully accustomed to Limilt's humor.
«It means that you have once again failed to grasp the essence of a situation,» said Limilt. «This is not fundamentally a conflict between Garatron and his grandfather, nor between the Southernmost Island and the High Council. It is a conflict between two different ideas of what constitutes right and wrong.»
«How do you mean?» I said.
«Look at it for yourself,» said Limilt. «You and your grandfather do not disagree on any matter of fact. Your grandfather agrees with you that Governor Haithul's action toward Kirinar and her parents was badly mistaken, and you acknowledge that he may well be right in thinking that rectifying the mistake would cause civil chaos – and yet you are determined that Kirinar should return to the Island, while he is equally determined that she should remain here. Surely, it ought to be obvious that the difference between you is a philosophical one.»
«But... but how can two people disagree about the meaning of right and wrong?» I said. «I thought that was something that everyone was born knowing.»
«Oh, of course,» said Limilt. «Innate knowledge of the Moral Law is one of the few things that separate Andalites from their thulicel forebears. Unfortunately, however, there are a great many parts to the Moral Law, and it is quite easy for a person to select one of them that he particularly likes and say, "This, and this alone, is the good."»
«Oh.» I felt stung, as though I had been reproved. «And this is what you believe me to have done, then?»
«You?» Limilt seemed surprised. «Certainly not. Your position – that wrongs, when they have been committed, must be righted, and that any merely social strife that results from this is simply one of the consequences of the original wrong – is perfectly consonant with the Moral Law considered as a unity. It is your grandfather who, in his zeal for preserving the public peace, has come to forget that social tranquility is not the only, or even the greatest, good.»
His words gratified and relieved me, but I found myself discomfited by the rather condescending manner in which he said them. A nine-year-old vecol, I felt, ought not to speak so of an Andalite of my grandfather's age, however valid his arguments with him. But I kept silent, not wishing to undermine my own position by disputing with my supporter.
It was Kirinar, surprisingly enough, who voiced my thoughts. «You speak well, Limilt-Zalaran-Hegeti,» she said. «And you speak truly: to know right from wrong is indeed fundamental to any sentient being. I think, though, that the Law of Nature must be different on the Mainland than it is in my country. On the Southernmost Island, we think it very wrong for a youth to speak without respect of an elder of the people.»
I hadn't thought it was possible for Limilt to look abashed, but at Kirinar's rebuke he managed a passable approximation. Shisken, however, sprang to his defense – which, given the historic friction between the two of them, was perhaps even more surprising than Kirinar defending my grandfather. «I see no wrong in Limilt's sentiments, Kirinar,» she said. «He merely noted what he believed to be an error in Master Nimavar's thinking. Surely, such an observation may be made about anyone by anyone, regardless of the difference between their stations.»
«Of course,» said Kirinar, a bit impatiently, «but one can refute an idea without dismissing him who holds it. Master Nimavar, besides being your unofficial leader's grandfather, is an important functionary in your Mainland government; those who are part of Mainland culture owe him a certain measure of honor.»
At this, Berel raised his head, and spoke for the first time since he had arrived on the ridge. «But are we part of "Mainland culture"?» he said, and his tone, though it was as mild as always, sent a strange shiver down my spine.
Perhaps I was not the only one, or perhaps no-one else could think of a reply. In any case, none of us responded to him, and after a moment's silence he continued, «We are told that our dignity depends on our being kept from other Andalites. We are brought to this place in the remote wilds of the Northern Continent, where no Andalite save Master Nimavar and some of his fellow scientists ever go. We are invited to create our own community, apart from the rest of the Andalite race. In what sense can we be said to be residents of the Planetary Republic? In what sense, save the merely biological, can we even be said to be Andalites?»
I have said that I had never truly known what went on in Berel's mind, and indeed this may have been my first real glimpse of the soul behind those vague, unfocused eyes. It was a glimpse that shook me to the core; I had never dreamed that, among the quiet forests and the gently rolling land of the Selicar Refuge, such thoughts were stirring in a mutant youth's mind.
I glanced out the corner of my eye at the others. Kirinar looked greatly distressed, as though she had neither expected nor wished anyone to respond thus to her comment, while Limilt seemed, perhaps for the first time in his life, to be utterly at a loss for words. It was Shisken's response, though, that surprised me. The fire-souled governor's daughter, whose every action from her cradle had been fierce and impulsive, stepped gently toward Berel, took his hand in hers, and adopted the unmistakable facial expression of one whispering soothing nothings in private thought-speak.
I was mildly thunderstruck. I knew, of course, that Shisken and Berel had been close friends for some time (since Limilt and I had already formed a unique bond before Shisken arrived, it was natural that the other two unofficial Elders should likewise gravitate towards each other), but this went beyond the commiseration of a friend. Shisken resembled nothing so much as a mother consoling her only child, or at least an elder sister tendering a younger brother; indeed, for one wild moment I wondered whether the two of them had somehow learned that they were twin siblings separated at birth.
This impression lasted perhaps thirty seconds, until Limilt replaced it with an even stranger one. «Well, well,» he said jauntily in private thought-speak, his natural aplomb recovered, «so Berel-Thorondor-Suparit has discovered the flint that ignites Shisken-Atomal-Breecai's hearts. How heartening to know that all that time spent together in the brizanec grove was not being wasted.»
I blinked. «You think that Shisken is in love with Berel?»
«It is not a question of thinking,» said Limilt. «My mother was a poet – one who specialized in short lyrics describing the manifold subtleties of male-female interaction. If I know nothing else, I know what romantic affection looks like.»
I could scarcely dispute this, and yet I found myself hoping he was in error. Romantic affection, to me, meant marriage first of all – and marriage meant offspring. What sort of offspring might be engendered through the union of the reckless, violent Shisken with the brooding Berel, I could not say, but I found it difficult to imagine that a world containing such people would be an entirely safe one to live in.
I consoled myself, however, with the reflection that perhaps the affection only went one way. Shisken's being in love with Berel did not necessarily mean that Berel was in love with Shisken – and, indeed, I found it difficult to believe that he could be. Certainly I could not imagine falling in love with Shisken-Atomal-Breecai: she was too wild, too volatile, to be a true companion of one's quiet hours. If I were to love a female, I thought, it would have to be one with a fundamentally gentle spirit – one who, though she might well have intense passions, had also the self-mastery to let them serve her rather than overcome her – one...
«All right, Berel-Thorondor-Suparit,» said Kirinar. «Suppose we grant that the four of you (I exclude myself, since I was not rejected by my people in the way you describe) are not truly Andalites in any meaningful sense. What follows from that?»
Berel released Shisken's hand and turned to Kirinar with an expression of weariness, as though he had used up all his energy in disclaiming kinship with Andal. (4) «I wish I could say, Kirinar,» he said. «I have asked that question of myself many times, and have found no answer. I merely offer the observation, for whatever it may be worth.»
«It seems to me to be worth a great deal,» said Shisken. «If we are members of the Andalite race, we are obligated to submit ourselves to that race's duly appointed rulers. On the other hand, if we are truly non-Andalite aliens, we are no more bound by the Council's judgments than an Ellimist or a kafit bird would be – and, accordingly, we must be guided in our actions by our own ideas of right and wrong, without reference to their decisions.»
«By which you mean, I suppose,» I said, «that we must find a way to take Kirinar home.»
«Exactly.»
«But is that really possible?» I did not like to say it, but I had to face the facts of the matter. «Even if we had the means to take her to the Southernmost Island, Governor Haithul would simply order her sent back again – unless, of course, he should choose to...» I paused a moment to gather my courage «...to make an example of her as he did with her parents.»
Shisken looked at me with an expression halfway between amusement and pity. «Of course we cannot take her to the Southernmost Island,» she said. «Nor did I say we ought to. I said that we ought to take her home.»
«What is her home, if it is not the Southernmost Island?» I demanded. «You surely are not suggesting that we merely attempt to make her feel at home in the Selicar Refuge?» Then another thought struck me, and a cold chill went down my spine. «Or do you mean... you cannot mean that we must send her to her final home?»
Shisken laughed aloud. «Set your mind at ease, Garatron,» she said. «I mean nothing of the sort.»
«What, then?»
Shisken smiled quietly. «Do you remember the message that your grandfather said he had from my father?» she said. «Three nights from tonight, come with me to the great hill at the Refuge's western boundary. There you will see what I mean.»
This seemed to be all that she was willing to say. It meant nothing to me, but I was forced to be content.
«Very well, then,» I said. «Let us return to the communal scoop. I thank you all for your thoughts; hopefully, in time, they will bear the fruit we seek.»
«I believe they will,» said Shisken.
(4)
«Who's Andal?» Tobias asked.
Ax sighed. «According to tradition,» he said, «all Andalites – or all Blue Andalites, at any rate – are descended from the same male of the Voiceless Race, who was given the power of thought-speak by the Great Powers that rule the universe. This male called himself Andal; the Andalite race takes its name from him.»
«Oh,» said Tobias. «Sort of like Adam, then.»
«Sort of like whom?»
«Um... never mind,» said Tobias. «Just go on with the story.»