The Last Novitiate

By Bruce Boston

Yet occasionally one of the Novitiates, who were still among us in those days, would become part of our evening circle. Whether they were musicians or dancers or storytellers, I must admit they were welcome. Before the Egg they had their place and they served us well.

I remember one evening in particular. A female Novitiate had joined our line of march as light was falling. She was young, yet typical of her breed. Sometimes you could spot them even as children. She had that underfed look, long nervous hands and deeply set eyes, the skin so pale and transparent at her temples that the veins showed through. The suffering so common to her kind was clear upon her face and she had already adopted the eccentricities of her calling. Her feet were bare and on one ankle she wore a thin black cord to which several small bells had been attached. Her clothes were heavy, many-colored robes, ill-suited to the everyday demands of work and travel. And like most Novitiates she held herself aloof, as if she were in some way superior. As we made camp and gathered wood for the fire she sat apart, never thinking to help. Even once we settled down in our meager circle of warmth she kept her distance, far back from the flames.

I had been with my first mate, Mindra, for less than a year. Along with others in our group, we offered the girl food. We hoped to draw her out of herself into a performance. She barely picked at what we gave her, and though most of us were hungry, we could not take it back. Many foolish myths persisted at that time. Novitiates were still held in awe.

In the near distance we could see another fire, and figures moving about it. Perhaps they were more fortunate and had found a way to fill their evening. As for ourselves, the presence of the girl seemed to have made us more constrained than ever. Conversation stalled and a dull silence settled upon us. It was then that I dozed off...only to be awakened moments later by a music the likes of which I had never heard.

The fire had fallen low. The girl was standing in the center of our circle, playing a long silver flute which had been concealed in the folds of her clothing. Her playing was beautiful, though difficult to follow. No refrain, hardly even a melody, but a series of notes which seemed to engage the night and draw forms from its blackness which then moved within our heads. As she played her flute, she played with our thoughts and feelings. She played with concern only for herself and her song. As I listened waves of joy would flood my being, then melancholy and despair, then emotions equally intense, yet too complex to name or recall.

The tempo of the music began to rise. The girl's naked feet moved up and down, her body swayed. The energy flowed from her small frame as she danced, the bells upon her ankle ringing, mingling with the notes from the flute which were now harsher and more discontinuous though no less profound in their effect.

I felt Mindra beside me, gripping my hand, her body pressed tightly against mine. Waves of pure emotion pulsed about us and entered. It was as if for a moment we had been given the talent of the girl's vision ourselves, and the force of it was too much for us. Curses formed upon my lips and tears coursed down my cheeks.

Like all Novitiates fully into their performance, the girl's body began to glow. The colors in her robe swirled. Strange illuminations passed across her features and her expression changed with them. She kicked the dying fire, sparks scattered, and then it seemed as if the fire had joined her dance and her body began to glow more fiercely. The music which filled the night grew louder and fiercer. The shifting colors lost all form and pattern. I sensed more than saw that those from other tribes, drawn by the intensity of the performance, heedless of our daylight rivalries, now pressed about the outside of our circle.

Mindra was gripping my hand more tightly than ever, and suddenly she was screaming, "She's going to nova! She's going to nova!"

Though I had never seen a Novitiate depart our world, I had heard of the dangers involved. Clutching Mindra to me I struggled up, but the crush of bodies about us was too great. There was no way out. The staring eyes on every side drew my gaze back to the girl and the illusion she had created. Light which flailed. Color which burned. And in the midst of it her face, head gyrating, hair rising up, lips peeling back, the sound which was no longer music raging higher and higher. Until the explosion which carried all before it.

When we could see again, the girl had vanished.

Those who were too close had been scorched by the heat. The remainder of that night we spent gathering our wits, caring for the injured. The next day we moved on, and gradually, as time passed and healed, our minds struggled free from the spell that had been cast upon us. We made our way back to the daily round of living.

Yet incidents such as this could not be forgotten.

At last we came to realize that despite the service they performed, the Novitiates did not belong in our world. They tried to show us those things better left unseen. When we transformed our lives, they resisted. When we changed to become One, when we ceased to struggle as tribes and individuals, they would not change to become One with us. So finally we drove them from our world--the artists, the storytellers, the dancers and musicians--all of them. In their bitterness for revenge, they took our moon with them. Yet now we have the Egg. We have Control and all is well.

Each night the unblemished surface of the Egg rises above the horizon. When it has reached apogee, it fills nearly a third of the heavens. The colors begin to swim across its face. The images form and reform. The shows follow, one upon another, and all of us watch together. Each evening is filled with the unfaltering affirmation of our common growth and singularity.

Still there are some nights, with the upturned faces and eyes all about me, that my own singularity intrudes. I remember the girl Novitiate. I remember that just before the explosion, when the noise had reached its highest pitch, she somehow singled me out. She spoke to me and me alone, for none of the others seem to have heard. I didn't really hear anything either, not aloud, not in words, but like some strange litany rushing through my mind, a cry which danced and teased at the edges of meaning.

There are times to this day when that cry seems to beckon me. There are moments when the sense of the girl's message almost comes clear. And then it slips away. When the Egg sets a few hours before dawn, I sometimes look into the black and moonless sky and it seems like a pit into which I am falling.

And suddenly, I have begun to tell stories.

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