Vernal Passage
Christopher R. Muscato
There is a very subtle change in the language of the creeks. For many months, they are quiet, their babbling reduced to murmurs and dampened whisperings. Then, as the downy quilt of winter recedes, a trickle of conversation resumes. What is less noticeable a change, although just as significant, is the bubbling energy that pours new life into the monologue. The snowmelt from higher elevations infuses this jeremiad with the lexicon of spring, if only one is versed in the vocabulary and attentive enough to hear it.
For most, of course, the change is heralded by a far less nuanced sense of perception. It does not take much to notice the eruption of little purple flowers throughout the valleys, to wonder at the patchwork of soft petals and aroma of vanilla and honey saturating the still cool (but warming) morning air.
Be it the loss of snow, the fragrance of early blooming heliotropes, or the lively babble of flowing waters, the signals are all in place and the villagers know what will arrive next.
Next will come the sheep.
“Good morning, Georgi.”
“Morning Mrs. Wiśniewski.” Georgi nods to the elderly woman elbowing her way past the stubborn wooden door of the shop. “Need a hand with that?”
“No, I’ve got it dear boy,” she grumbles, ambling over and heaving a cardboard box onto the counter. “Violet buds in the valley today. They’ll be here soon.”
“And that means you are doing your spring cleaning.” Georgi begins to rummage through the contents of the box. “Microprocessors? You sure you don’t want to keep these? I can help you fix them, if they aren’t working for you.”
The old woman waves a hand in the air as if swatting away a fly (or a silly idea).
“I have too many as it is. Let them have these. It will be good for the village’s reputation to have something decent at the swap market this year.”
“Fair enough. I’ll get these sorted.”
“Thank you, Gosha.” The old woman nods as she adjusts the scarf covering her head and Georgi grins to himself. She is one of the only people who still calls him that. As she opens the door, however, she pauses and glances over her shoulder.
“It seems I have done my part to make our village proud.”
And with that she disappears, the heavy wooden door clacking against the frame behind her. Georgi listens as she curses at the door, shuffles onto her hovercart, and sputters off.
He sighs and returns his attention to the microprocessors she left him, fingers sifting aimlessly through the mixture. After a moment, he reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a stack of papers, spreading them on the counter in front of him. There are notes and ideas, quips and profound thoughts, sketches and charts.
And that’s when he hears the chatter outside.
Georgi cranes his neck to glance out the window, but he knows what the commotion means even before his communicator starts blinking. He flips a switch on the shop’s mainframe, activating the holo-AI assistant who flickers to life and politely bows as Georgi snatches a hat from the rack and presses through the door into the crisp spring air.
Quietly, Georgi dips into the current of villagers flowing downhill in a bubbling stream of elbows and whispers, pooling at the entrance to the village. It is still early, and a light fog clings to the trees of the valley. Then, a soft bleating cuts through the muffled quiet of the forest, followed by the clanging of little bells. The sheep appear like wooly ghosts, materializing from the fog, marching towards the village then corralling at the sides of the main gates. As they part, the shepherds emerge. Already dismounted from their horses and hovercraft, they walk with the deliberate strides of those practiced at stomping the earth, those taught by generational wisdom to find secure footing in even the most treacherous of mountain passes. They arrive at the village gate and stop, a single man from among their numbers stepping forward.
Georgi gently pushes his way through the crowd, finally making his way to the front. He adjusts his cap and takes a step.
All fall silent as Georgi approaches the man at the gate. No one speaks, and yet the energy filling the space is palpable, like a storm about to break. Georgi surveys the man before him.
“Otar Shotashvili.”
“Georgi Giorgadze,” the man returns.
Both are quiet a moment, before erupting in laughter and throwing their arms open. As they embrace, the shepherds and villagers break into cheers and one river swells into the other, creating a great crashing of laughter and gossip and hugs and handshakes.
With the melting of the snow, the soil is awakened. Germinating within it is a proliferating cosmos of microsystems, an infinitesimal universe of chemical transfer and nutrient exchange and rejuvenation. It is wild. It is entropy. It is chaos, and all chaos seeks balance, which is why the wise understand a very simple truth: the Earth desires to be trampled.
The pounding of hooves is the heartbeat of the season as keratin pestles crush nutrients into the soil, fertilizing the ground and breaking apart decaying matter. It is a ritual of fine and natural alchemy, the transition of death and decay into life and growth, the rite of winter blossoming into spring.
“Tell me everything,” Otar claps Georgi on the back.
“Well, the new atmospheric condensers the village installed up the ridge last autumn are functioning well—”
“Always the business of town headman with you, ever since you were elected last summer.” Otar laughs and waves a hand. “I want to hear about you, my friend!”
“Hard to separate the two,” Georgi mumbles. “It seems that my life is nothing but the worries of the headman now.”
He glances at the jostling islands of wool surrounding them. The sheep are mostly quiet as they graze, working their way through the woodland surrounding the village, clearing out dead undergrowth. Georgi notices a scar on a very old tree, remnants of a fire long ago, back before such grazing was part of their forest management. Next to it, the bark of the adjacent tree is pale, almost sickly. It’s not the only one.
“You know one of the main responsibilities of the headman is the protection of the forest?” Georgi asks.
“I do.”
“There have been some troubling signs over the last few seasons; inconsistencies in growth, respiration, dying trees, things like that. We’re not sure if some of our actions are causing this.”
“And now the burden of this lies on your shoulders.”
Georgi sighs, eyes wandering the forest. Otar watches him a moment.
“Another responsibility of the headman is to serve as tamada at the spring banquet, is it not?” Otar prods. At this Georgi’s eyes fall, and he kicks at a pile of dead leaves in the underbrush.
’This is my first year as toastmaster,” Georgi laughs, embarrassed by his own nerves. “I know my other duties are more important, but I just cannot pick the right theme to begin the toast.”
“You sure you’re not just worried that you won’t be able to handle your alcohol?”
At this, Georgi lets out a genuine laugh. The tamada is expected to empty his cup after every round of toasting, and the thought has crossed his mind.
“You villagers and your toasting,” Otar chuckles. “I know it is a venerated tradition but last year’s Keipi banquet knocked out four of our shepherds. We couldn’t travel for days after that feast. What themes are you considering for your first toast?”
“I keep coming back to the usual,” Georgi shrugs. “Community, harmony with the mountains, family, honoring ancestors past and generations to follow. Nothing too inspired. I don’t know. It feels like I haven’t had enough time to grow into my role as headman to say anything more eloquent.”
“So, you need a theme that is topical, but profound. How about—oh, hold on a second.”
Otar shudders, eyes closed, and Georgi takes a respectful step back. The shepherd is quiet, head tilting and swiveling as if he is listening for something. Finally, his eyes snap open.
“This way.” He jerks his head, and the two plunge into the forest, eyes skimming the outcrops of rocks and tangles of thick shrubs.
“There,” Georgi points. A ram has ventured up the rock wall of this forested ravine and is stuck in a bramble of tangled creepers, the signal light on its bell blinking its distress, not that its bleating isn’t enough of a cue.
“Ara,” Otar sighs. “Of course it’s you.”
Otar activates his lift pack and, with practiced movements, glides into the air to retrieve the frantic stray. He whispers and coos, and the animal calms. Georgi shakes his head. He has asked Otar many times to describe the sensation of the empathy chips connecting via neurolink shepherd and flock. Otar always says the same thing: all shepherds are naturally attuned to their flocks. The chip just amplifies it.
“Should we head to the swap market?” Otar asks, landing back alongside Georgi with a soft thud, the ram Ara now freed from his thorny prison and resuming his grazing on the forest floor. Georgi nods, running a hand through his hair.
“I suppose the village headman should make an appearance.”
Green buds indicate life, but the warming of the season is a prescient reminder that this new growth is also new fuel. The legacies of past fires remain ever-present in the charred limbs of dead trees and the ashes smeared across rockface like graffiti.
Other vestiges mark a different form of inheritance. The most recent scars carved into the forest are swaths of blackened earth, but those only a few seasons older are verdant. Saplings, the future inheritors of this valley that will guard over the great-grandchildren of the villagers, flourish in the nutrient-rich black soil. And, within the valley, other symbols of fire are seen in the wafts of smoke that appear in evenings as families and friends warm themselves in cheer around the hearth.
“Georgi, look at this! Look at this!”
Georgi bends down, taking the lace kite in his hands and ruffling the hair of his young niece. He looks over the intricate details, motifs of eagles and dragons and stars.
“It’s beautiful, Eteri.”
“Do you see the nanogenerators?” She gestures to the tail, motions sharp with excitement. Georgi chuckles as Eteri explains how her new kite will generate energy as it flies, how beautiful the design is, and how much she will cherish it.
“And what did you trade?” Georgi asks. “I hope you were fair.”
The little girl’s face turns solemn. She nods.
“Yes. I traded the mushrooms I grew.”
“Then we are lucky indeed to have visited your village!” Otar commends the little girl, and she beams.
“Thank you, Mr. Shotashvili,” she says, before dashing off to find her friends and begin the process of explaining her new kite all over again. Otar laughs as he strolls into the market to unpack his tent and help oversee trade.
Georgi takes a moment to survey the scene, his farmers and Otar’s shepherds engaged in raucous barter, dealings of crops and microprocessor chips for wool fabrics, intricate lacework, and nanogenerators, specialties of the shepherds. When they pass through this way again in fall, the shepherds will bring highly coveted cheese to barter with, but that cannot happen until the flock completes its summer grazing. Still, the shepherds are extremely adept at coding, spending much of their free time writing and editing programs to run the nanogenerators they build into everything, from the soles of their shoes to the bells on their sheep. A life in motion is one that generates as much power as they need to maintain their heating lamps and the cooking apparatus, their hovercraft and mobile tents, their consoles and tablets. Notably absent from the trading booths, however, are the empathy chips prized by the shepherds. That technology is theirs alone.
Georgi works his way through the market, seeing to the comfort and needs of all, facilitating negotiations where requested, gossiping and practicing the vital work of maintaining the strength of the perennial social bonds that bind these peoples together.
Although he is young, at least by the standards of the village elders, most people part for him to pass and nod in respect when he visits their tables. It has been less than a year since his election and the deference still makes him a bit uncomfortable, if not only because he sees within it the weight of their expectations, his responsibilities. His mind returns to his toast, his sacred duty as headman and toastmaster to initiate the Spring banquet by identifying the theme and symbol of the gathering. This is a moment that the people will reference for the entirety of the year to come.
“Georgi.”
Otar’s voice shakes Georgi from his ruminations. His friend is pale, sweating, and shaking.
“Otar, what’s wrong?” Georgi clasps the shepherd’s hand, helps him sit. Others are starting to gather. A few of the other leaders of the shepherds are converging quickly, similar expressions on their faces.
“Something is wrong,” Otar touches the base of his skull, where a small scar marks the incision from the neurochip implant. “I think it’s Ara, and a few of the ewes. They got out of the paddocks. They’re in distress . . .”
His breathing is heavy, and Georgi calls for some water. Otar shakes his head, standing.
“Don’t make a fuss. We’ll see to this.”
Georgi’s hand is quickly on his friend’s shoulder.
“We chose to share our village with you. Tell us what we can do.”
When the word spreads via whispers and shouts and blinking communicators that the headman needs help, nobody questions the request. There is no grumbling or griping, no dragging of feet or apathetic shrugs. Each person abandons their distractions and leisure, procures from their homes their lift packs or bio-lanterns or holomaps with satellite geotracking, anything that might be of service. Nobody asks why they all must help find a few lost sheep because the answer is obvious. They help because their help is needed.
For hours, the villagers and shepherds alike search the ravines and cliffs, the valley and ridges, the forests and streams. As the sun sets, the mountainside flickers with lights like stars as lamps and floodlights illuminate the searchers. There is no sign of the lost sheep.
“I can feel them, they are close,” Otar rubs his head. “But I can’t tell where, precisely. I need a stronger signal.”
In the back of Georgi’s mind, a thought shimmers like the barely noticeable softening of darkness long before dawn breaks. Georgi feels the idea awaken and tries to shake it back to sleep. But it doesn’t return to the darkness. The glow of thought radiates a little brighter.
Small beads of sweat on his neck, Georgi tries to focus on the frantic conversations surrounding him. This idea is not one he can entertain, it’s not one he should entertain. It’s not his place to suggest something like this.
Otar is pale, color drained from his face. The distress is evident, and it is taking a toll. Georgi can see that. He knows how traumatic the loss would be for these shepherds, no different than if some children of his village wandered off into the night. What wouldn’t he do to find those children, to keep his village whole?
The idea in Georgi’s mind breaks into a full dawn, illuminating other budding thoughts, matters of logistics and consequence that flower into complete plans. Georgi gulps. He understands now. He is the only one in a position to raise such an idea. The only one who could. This is, in fact, his place and his responsibility. He is the headman.
“Otar, I’m going to ask you something that will make you uncomfortable. Explain how the empathy chips work.”
“What?” Otar’s eyes open wide, his eyebrows arching up.
“There must be a signal that connects you to the flock, right? If you can give us the signal pattern, we can use the village weather antennae to amplify it. That will make it strong enough to triangulate your sheep’s positions on the holomaps.”
Otar’s surprise is enough to pull some of the color back into his face, even if just for a moment.
“This technology is the pride of our people,” his voice is almost a whisper. “It’s not mine to give away. Don’t ask this of me, my friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Georgi takes Otar’s hands in his own. “But this may be the best chance, the only chance, to keep your people whole. I am asking you, not only as a friend but also as headman and representative of my people, to trust me.”
Otar sits down, rubbing the back of his neck, and is quiet. He exchanges glances with some of the nearby leaders of his clan. Like him, they are sweating, faces pale. Time is running short. Otar shakes his head and whispers Ara’s name, then holds out a hand. Georgi helps him up.
“Neuro-electrical impulses, that’s the basis of the code. The neural data is paired with hormone readings in the blood, and translated into a signal that the empathy chip can interpret. I can have our chief engineer show you how to program it into your mainframe.”
It takes an hour for the shepherds and villagers to integrate their systems, but it is, at last, a success. Sharp pings on the holomaps reveal the precarious situation of the lost sheep, trapped in a deep gorge next to roaring waters, and rescue efforts are made. With the combined work of shepherds and villagers together, the wayward strays are recovered and returned to their flock, to their people. The village becomes a place of celebration, for this is certainly something worth celebrating.
Deep into that night, after most have retired to the well-deserved rest of weary revenants, Georgi is still standing at the central console to the village mainframe, eyes shimmering as he scans the waves of impulses generated by the flock.
“Incredible,” he breaths.
“It is.” Otar rubs his neck. He looks tired, worn. His flock is whole, but he does not seem at peace. “Many will not be happy that I revealed the secrets to our technology.”
“I’m sorry for putting you in that position.” Georgi lowers his eyes from the screen. “I don’t pretend to know exactly the cost of that decision, and I’m sure that you must have mixed emotions about finding your flock this way.”
Otar nods. He is quiet, focused on something beyond this room. Georgi fidgets at the console. He knows that Otar has given away something valuable. It seems an unfair exchange, even if the ends appeared to justify the means. If anything, it is Georgi’s people who stand to benefit the most in the long run. This could even—
Georgi stops. The shepherd’s coveted technology could hold the answers he needs. And Otar gave it away to protect his flock. There must be an answer to that sacrifice. If Georgi has learned anything from the shepherds, it is that for something to be truly beneficial, it must benefit all.
“Give it away . . .” Georgi mumbles, thoughts whirling.
“What?” Otar tilts his head, attention still partially elsewhere.
“What if we make this more than an unfortunate necessity?” Georgi begins pacing the room. “What if this is your gift to the village, and we promise to use it to ensure the survival of both our peoples, our ways of life, by protecting the forest?”
“Georgi, what are you talking about?” Otar stands, his full attention now focused on his friend.
“The trees, you can teach us to speak to the trees!” Georgi gestures at the waves on the screen. “You use electrical and chemical impulses to connect your empathy centers with the aggregate emotions of your flock, right? We’ve been trying to find out what’s wrong with the forest; what if we do the same thing? We can adapt your technology to interpret mycorrhizal networks, volatile organic compound signals, and other forms of plant communication. That way we can better understand the forest, better interact with it and communicate with it. Just as your sheep are a part of your people, the forest will be part of ours.”
“It’s possible,” Otar begins pacing as well. “But it will take time.”
“Time we can spend, my friend. A little time now could mean prosperity for our entire futures.”
In the days that follow, the usual markets are occupied, the games are played, and the dances are danced. However, there is a new liveliness as the people recount their shared experiences of rescuing the lost sheep in the cold of the night, the secrets revealed, and the new opportunities to come. Georgi and Otar are in constant motion, meeting with leaders of both peoples, convincing the reluctant and coordinating a massive exchange of ideas. Finally, the time comes for the shepherds to move on—but before they do, it is time for the Keipi. It is time for the spring feast.
The best linens are taken from the closets, the bots and drones are powered down as all preparations will be done by hand for this meal, and the tables are set in the great hall. Upon them are placed mountains of food, goblets and horns for wine, and centerpieces featuring the craftsmanship of villagers and shepherds alike. Chairs surround the tables, and the guests all boisterously find places to sit, reveling in the company and meal soon to be shared.
Once everyone is seated and enough time has been given to chatter, Georgi stands. From the corner of his eye, he sees Otar wink. Georgi takes a breath, releasing it slowly. Much has happened this spring. Once again, his village has seen the incredible care the shepherds possess for their flocks, and it has made them all stronger. Now, all have agreed to spend the summer trying to adapt the empathy chips so the villagers can communicate with their forests and crops, to be better stewards of this land. They will compare their successes when the shepherds return south in the autumn. As it has been for the many generations that Georgi and Otar’s people have coexisted, the pathway forward was carved by empathy. The elders of the village say that Georgi is blossoming into a true leader. Georgi, their young headman. Georgi, the feast’s toastmaster, who has finally found his theme.
Georgi waits a moment as the chatter subsides, and raises his glass.
Smoke rising from the chimneys catches a breeze, and begins a slow dance up the valley, waltzing on updrafts and pirouetting through currents of air. As it ascends, it finds new winds, arriving again after many months of absence: the final herald of the changing season. The time has come for the grey clouds of colder seasons to migrate and make way for the arrival of summer storms.
As if caught by these same currents, the spirits of the shepherds grow restless as well, and they know it is time to continue their journey. It is a journey of many thousands of steps, traversing hundreds of miles from winter to summer pastures, sustained by the energy of the passage migrant, like flocks of birds who know that home is a concept best maintained seasonally. In a few months, the winds will shift again, the clouds will change their form and character, the leaves will begin to perform their last rites, and the journey will begin anew, as it has every season and as it will continue to do for as long as there are those left to take it.
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