The Oversoul Seven Trilogy: The Education of Oversoul Seven, The Further Education of Oversoul Seven, Oversoul Seven and the Museum of Time

Dedicated to The Speakers in all Times

and to Those Who Recognize

the Sumari Songs

Chapter One

Oversoul Seven’s Examination and Josef’s Dream

Oversoul Seven grimaced at Cyprus and began the examination. Let’s see, he said. "In Earth terms, using an analogy, I’m a man on Wednesday and Friday, a woman on Sunday and Thursday, and I have the rest of the time off for independent study.

Actually, because of their time concepts this is somewhat more complicated, he said. Each life is lived in a different, uh, area of time to which various designations are given. Cyprus smiled, and Seven continued. "As Lydia I’m in the twentieth century, as Josef in the seventeenth, as Ma-ah in 35,000 B.C., and as Proteus in the 23rd century, A.D. Then there’s the further background in space, uh, different locations called countries. Then there’s the ages of the personalities.

I’m partial to Josef and Lydia, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. Still, they show so much vitality and seem to enjoy themselves. Ma-ah cries a lot, and Proteus is always looking back to the good old days—

Cyprus had been silent. Now she said, You’re wandering and not organizing your thoughts very well. Pretend that I know nothing about all this, and you’re trying to explain it. You just told me that you had personalities in all those times, for example. So why should Proteus look back to the good old days?

Oh, I see. Sorry, Oversoul Seven said. Proteus doesn’t know that. He doesn’t take anything for granted. He doesn’t even take me for granted, or himself, for that matter. That is, he doesn’t realize that he is a soul, much less that both of us are one. Certainly he doesn’t know that other portions of us live in other times. I get lonely for him now and then, but there it is. In fact, sometimes I think we Oversouls aren’t appreciated at all. We work and strive—

Seven was suddenly struck by such a sense of desolation that he dematerialized his hallucinatory pencil. He brought it back as quickly as he could, but Cyprus shook her head at the lapse and said sharply, Now, none of that. Dropping your hallucination loses you five points, you know. Suppose you were, say, Lydia on Earth, and she did something like that? Physical matter wouldn’t be a dependable framework at all. One slip, that’s all it takes! How would you like to be responsible for such a massive reaction? Then everyone would have to start over with a new … Oh, Seven, you just can’t make errors like that. Pencils disappearing in mid-air!

Oversoul Seven nodded, then suddenly, almost despite himself, he started to laugh. Actually, Josef is almost on the edge of knowing. Once he forgot to materialize one of his painting brushes—he was in the throes of creativity—and bongo, the brush was just gone. Josef almost went out of his mind. Seven’s eyes glowed with parental-like pride.

Cyprus said sternly, None of your personalities are ready to understand that mind forms matter, and you know it. I hope you remedied the situation.

I hallucinated the brush back at once, Oversoul Seven said. But tell me, don’t you find the affair even a little bit funny?

Not at all, Cyprus said, concealing a smile. But now let’s get back to your examination.

Gladly, Oversoul Seven said. But when I reach your position, I hope I retain my sense of humor.

Cyprus laughed. She laughed so hard that Seven got uncomfortable. Finally she said: "Your sense of humor includes only a small part of my sense of humor. There’s so much you don’t see. This examination of yours, for example—oh bless me—and having to maintain Earth-type conditions for it. Now that’s funny. By the way, look around this room. There’s something else that quite escapes you. Your visual is awful—"

Oversoul Seven looked around cautiously. He’d been secretly quite pleased with the environment he’d chosen and created. The classroom was authentic twentieth-century, like the one Lydia knew as a child. There were rows of desks, blackboards, windows, everything right down to stacks of paper—all individual new sheets—and an automatic pencil sharpener.

Then he blushed, all over his nice new cheeks and right up to the roots of the thick brown hair that sprang up from his forehead.

Nice effect, Cyprus said, watching. I meant to congratulate you on your form, very good fourteen-year-old male type, Caucasian, I believe. But for the other—

I found it, the error! There! The wastepaper basket had been in the corner, complete with girth and thickness, exactly two feet high and as many around, but he’d forgotten to materialize it visually. Now he made it red, and with a flourish added scallops around the upper edge.

But there’s still another error, Cyprus said, looking nowhere in particular. Just at that moment a young man wearing a toga appeared. He looked around with a rather wild air, then shouted out at Seven: Ah, there you are! I knew I’d find you again. Just the same, all this has to stop. He looked half mad, and yelled in tones of deepest outrage.

Cyprus raised her eyebrows at Oversoul Seven, who coughed several times and tried to look the other way.

Well? shouted the young man.

How did you get here? Seven asked. Then he whispered urgently to Cyprus. That’s Josef. He must be in a dreaming state, and sleeping on Earth.

How did I get here? You tell me, Josef cried angrily. Next time I’m going to memorize the route. I see you in my dreams too often for comfort. Dreams aren’t supposed to work that way. He broke off, frowning: I am dreaming, aren’t I? I must be. What a crazy place. What on Earth is that? He was staring at the automatic pencil sharpener.

"Don’t touch it! It’s not on Earth. That’s the point," Seven cried. But Josef was fascinated.

It’s authentic twentieth-century, Seven said, giving in. Works by electricity.

Cyprus moaned. "I believe that Josef is your seventeenth-century personality, she said. Electricity isn’t utilized there."

Oversoul Seven blushed and dematerialized the pencil sharpener. Just forget you saw it. Forget the whole thing, he said to Josef.

Where did it go? Josef stood staring.

Listen, you aren’t supposed to be here. Not here, of all places. I get demerits for this, Oversoul Seven said. Go home. Go back to your body where you belong.

What do you mean, go back to my body? Josef demanded. He rose to his full stature and adjusted his toga with a dramatic gesture. This is my dream, and nobody is going to put me out of it.

Why are you wearing a toga? Cyprus asked gently.

Josef looked down at himself with some amazement. I don’t know. I didn’t realize that I had one on. I like to paint models in togas, though. You can do so much with the folds— He broke off, angry again. You aren’t answering my questions at all. What’s happening? How is it that I meet you in my dreams? He paused and shook his head. You look like a boy now, but most of the time you look like an old man. You can’t fool me, though. You’re the same one.

I’ve told you before, but you never remember, Seven said. "I’m something like your mother and something like your father, but neither. We’re closer than sister and brother, mother and daughter, or father and son. That’s all I can tell you now. You have to learn some things for yourself. You are learning fast, but you wandered in where you shouldn’t be. I know you had a reason, though: You never look for me unless you’re in trouble."

Seven caught the rebuke in his own voice and added quickly: That’s all right. I understand. But what’s bothering you? He looked around to see if Cyprus approved of the way he was handling the situation, but Cyprus had sympathetically dematerialized.

Josef never noticed. He said mournfully: I’m twenty-four and I don’t have any discipline. I can’t keep myself at my easel two hours at a time, yet painting is what I want to do more than anything else in the world. If I don’t learn some discipline, I’m afraid I’ll lose what talent I have—and God knows how much that is, to begin with. On top of that I haven’t felt any real inspiration for a year.

Seven shook his head. Before his eyes, Josef was turning into a big unhappy bear, his dark moustache transformed into fur, his eyes belligerent and sad at the same time, his toga changing into a blanket. Josef looked down at himself, hysterically. I’m a circus bear; something for people to laugh at. Oh, what a dream. It’s got to be a dream. Then the bear growled threateningly.

Come on now, Seven said, and patted its head. Turn back into yourself. In the dream state you take different forms as your feelings and thoughts change. You felt like a bear, so you look like one.

Really? Josef was himself again. Immediately he forgot what had happened. If I don’t do something, I’m going to ruin my life, he said.

Oh, you can’t do that, Oversoul Seven said. You aren’t aware of your real problem yet. It’s one of my jobs to help you, so I’ll get back to you shortly. In the meantime I’ll do some little thing to tide you over.

As he spoke, Oversoul Seven created in his mind an excellent art studio, made to Josef’s personal requirements. On the easel was a painting of the precise farmhouse in which Josef was staying on earth. The painting was signed in the corner: Josef Landsdatter, 1615. Now I’ve made this dream for you, Seven said. Look at the painting well. You’ll begin work on it tomorrow. You’ll be so filled with inspiration that you’ll paint all day. He transmitted the dream to Josef telepathically, then said: When you get all you want out of the dream, then wake up in your bedroom.

Josef nodded and dutifully disappeared.

What did you think of him? Seven asked.

Cyprus laughed richly, then returned visually. Well, I see the similarity between the two of you, she said.

Stop joking. He has a serious problem.

That’s something else about you, Seven, Cyprus said. "Your sense of humor doesn’t extend to yourself or your personalities. By the time you reach Oversoul Eight stage, you’ll know better. You did handle the situation well, however."

I worry about Josef, Seven said. He’s so impetuous.

"As you are, Cyprus said. Remember, your various personalities, while independent, also reflect qualities of your own. You can’t create without giving of yourself.

"Now technically you do get three demerits, she said. You should have been aware of Josef’s approach and waylaid him. But rules are also flexible, and his achievement is noteworthy, regardless of the circumstances. So I’ll note that in your files.

The schoolroom environment was also well done, though I’m waiting for you to discover your one other error. Your appearance as the fourteen-year-old male was symbolically valid. You’ve demonstrated that you have an excellent understanding of Earth’s conventions. Let’s dispense with them now, though, and get down to the more serious aspects of your examination.

As Cyprus spoke, the room disappeared, and the trees outside the windows. Last to go was the wastepaper basket with the scalloped edges. A lovely touch, Seven thought, feeling a bit of dismay as it vanished….

Now Oversoul Seven and Cyprus were two brilliant points of consciousness, without form. Oversoul Seven felt himself expand mentally, psychically. He breathed a symbolic sigh of relief. He and Cyprus communicated telepathically through the use of mental images that changed with each alteration of meaning, and were instantly perceived and understood. In Earth terms, it boiled down to this conversation:

Creating yourself physically certainly is demanding, Seven said. But even now, when I’m not Earth-oriented, I can appreciate Josef and all the rest, and feel the splendid growth of their vitality.

I know how you want to handle this part of the examination, Cyprus said. "But remember, you can’t contact any of your people. If they contact you, that’s all right. But you can’t correct any of their errors. I want to see how they’re progressing, so this part of the exam involves you only as a bystander. Knowing how impetuous you are, let me emphasize that point. Later, of course, how well you communicate with your personalities will be an important factor."

All at once Oversoul Seven felt apprehensive. He heard the voice before Cyprus did, because it was directed to him.

Tweety! Tweety!

That’s a human voice, Cyprus said. How can that be? No humans should be able to reach us here.

Maybe it’s a mistake, Seven said weakly. But already it was too late.

Is it time yet? asked the voice.

Go back where you came from, Seven said desperately. No it’s not time yet, and for all I know it may never be.

But I’m all ready, said the voice.

No you aren’t. That’s just the trouble, Seven said. If you were, you’d have better sense. This is my superior, by the way.

Oh, Tweety! cried the voice, desolate.

Tweety? Cyprus asked.

"Uh. We’re old friends. It’s Daga. Whenever Daga’s a female she calls me Tweety. Right now she’s a female and helping me with my independent study. At least we think she’s female. When I am, I call her Tweety. In confusion, Seven took on the fourteen-year-old form again. Earth language doesn’t have any words for what we really are, no, uh, pronouns for beings that are male and female at once, so it makes explanations difficult."

We aren’t ready to go into your independent study yet, Cyprus said. But I must admit that I’m curious. And I must note that you seem to have some difficulty in keeping track of your various projects.

See? Oversoul Seven said. Daga, please go away.

If you insist, the voice said. But I’ve got my birth date planned, and—

Go away! Seven cried, in consternation.

Cyprus pretended not to hear. She said: "I presume that you’ll have a good explanation for this later on. Now if you don’t mind, let’s get down to the scheduled phases of your examination."

Oversoul Seven tried not to be nervous. All right, he said. Let’s look in on Lydia. I certainly hope that she’s having a good day. First, there’s a few things I’d like to explain about her. She—

Sorry. From now on I must see for myself, Cyprus said.

Seven sighed. He thought of Lydia, lovingly brought her image into his awareness until it filled him, taking precedence over all the other memories of his many selves. Together he and Cyprus blinked off and on, rode piggy-back on a million molecules, and emerged.

Chapter Two

Part One of the Examination — A Quick Peek at Lydia, Proteus, Ma-ah, and Josef

THE PRESENT (MORE OR LESS)

Lydia felt nervous, as if someone was watching her, beside Lawrence. It was a thunderstormy morning, eleven o’clock, with great dashes of rain pounding against the windows. She was seventy-three, and angrier than usual about it on dark days.

Lawrence sat on the blue couch. Well, what do you say? I do wish you’d quit prowling around and give me some kind of an answer, he said.

She frowned and put down her rye and ginger. "My kids won’t like it much, not that it makes any difference. God, they’re hitting fifty, and Anna in particular is pretty pompous. But I just might do it, Larry. The aged poetess on her last binge! I like college-age people, too. They haven’t got into the establishment yet and we’re out of it, thank heaven. My kids would okay the idea of a tour, of course. But you and me traveling around the country together in a trailer, unmarried—well, you know how conventional they are. But they can hardly call you a dirty old man, since I’m older than you are! So to hell with it. I’ll go."

He was so excited that he almost dropped his pipe. We’ll fill the camper with books and food and liquor—

And two of my cats. Tuckie and Greenacre have to go, and Mr. George, my goldfish.

He groaned. "The two cats, and Mr. George."

She wanted to cry but she wouldn’t. Defiance rose up so that she thrust her head backward in an old gesture that had been startlingly dramatic when she was young. I’ll make out papers before we leave, giving the house to my children. I don’t imagine really that we’ll be coming back.

We will. Goddammit, we will. He stood up, but knowing how she was, he didn’t put his arms around her. He only said, again, We’ll both come back.

Oh, to hell with it. If you say we will, we will. After all, what difference does it make? Forget it. You know, I meant to tell you—not to change the subject—that those dreams of mine are getting nuttier all the time. Last night none of them made sense. Yet right now, talking to you, it almost seems as if they did, if only I could remember them.

Lawrence said: When you talk like that, then I’m sure that we’ve known each other before—before we met, I mean. You are, after all, what? Fifteen years older than I am? But in some odd manner it always seems to me that you’re younger.

My dear love, she said flippantly. In the world’s eyes we make one hell of a funny pair. The thing is, no one ever thinks they’ll really grow old. It always comes as a surprise, and the world sort of hates you for it. Growing old, gracefully or not, just isn’t the polite or tasteful thing to do. And you can’t blame the young either, because when we were young we felt the same way. Too bad, because in one way I feel freer than I ever did before—

You look ten years younger than you are, he said.

"Don’t be trite. Telling a woman that she looks sixty-three instead of seventy-three isn’t likely to win her favor. You’d be smarter to say nothing. For some reason that I’ve never understood, growing old is considered bad enough for a man, but an unforgivable crime for a woman. But best I don’t get on that subject."

She took another sip of her drink. It’s true, I suppose, in good light and if I bothered to wear makeup, I could look near your age—maybe. But as it is I look like a scrawny boy grown suddenly old, with white hair and gaunt face and quite incredulous about how it all happened. As I am, of course. Yet what I am, I am. I can’t see dying my hair, for example. In a way it’s pretty damn lucky to be seventy-three years old, and get white, to begin with.

He was silent. Then he said: "If the doctors are right, and my heart does go suddenly—"

Then I’ll follow our plan, she said. "For that matter, I don’t know how long I’ll hold out. I’m quite aware that the first stages of my … condition have already come upon me. My memory should be all right, generally, for a while, though. But you can never tell. If not, then you follow our plan. When I can’t recite my own poetry right, then I suppose I’ll know that something’s wrong."

And suddenly it seemed really funny, beautifully hilarious to each of them. He said, We’ll beat their hospitals, their rest homes and final asylums. Exuberance flashed through his thin nervous frame.

She laughed with him, then stopped. My electric pencil sharpener, she said. I just remembered. I dreamed of my old eighth-grade classroom. Only my electric pencil sharpener was in it, which is ridiculous, of course. They didn’t have them then. Now I wonder what that means?

A bleed-through from one dream state to another, Oversoul Seven said to Cyprus. They were suspended in two green leaves that rustled in the wind outside the windows.

You heard what she said about the pencil sharpener? That was the error you missed, Cyprus said, and Seven grinned.

Wait, Lydia said. I was a man in the dream, fairly young. Funny, how some of it comes back.

Lawrence frowned suddenly. Never question the dream messages of the gods, he said dramatically. You might find out what they mean.

Now don’t say things like that, she cried. It makes me nervous. And look at those leaves outside. How alive they seem, how … watchful. God, I wish the damned storm would stop.

The sound of rain on a trailer roof will be different, Lawrence said.

She smiled over at him. He’d just closed his leather shop for good. He’d upholstered the whole camper-trailer, and half of her books had leather covers that he’d made for her. She almost gasped: how could they be so in love and so old? In my dream, someone was taking an examination, she said. I was thinking of my books, and just remembered.

I was, dear Lydia. We both are! Oversoul Seven was all ready to transmit the words to Lydia when Cyprus said gently, No prompting, remember.

The leaves were really tossing in all that wind. Oversoul Seven filled himself with the uniqueness of it, because Cyprus was saying: All right, we have to leave now. The first part of the examination allows for a quick viewing only.

And the scene changed….

TWENTY-THIRD CENTURY A.D.

Proteus secretly yearned to be a girl: they were so much freer to express themselves. Instead he was stuck at home in the living nodule with his father, and only innocuous hobbies to content him. He also yearned for the sight of something naturally green, growing, real. In fact, this desire had grown so strong that he determined to do something about it.

He said eagerly: Surely we could take some small space and devote it to a natural miniature farm. Say the whole thing only took up one living nodule. It would be self-sufficient. Someone ought to be able to give us permission—

Mithias, his father, frowned: "Life grows. That kind of life grows, anyhow. There’s no stopping it. It’s wild. We’ve spent two centuries developing an artificial environment that we could handle. If you gave that kind of life freedom, people would have children all the time. You’d be dead at sixty or seventy. Our way of life is balanced. But I can’t expect you to really understand that at sixteen."

He paused and said with a grunt, When we had our ‘natural’ environment, the women were kept busy having children. Men had the positions of power. Otherwise, I can’t think of anything good about those days. They were filled with sickness, wars, social diseases—

You’re right as usual, Proteus said. But he was still sick of being cooped up inside with his father all day.

Mithias was watching his son’s face. Now don’t start brooding, he said. We’re due for a rain at noon. Why don’t you go outside and watch? It always lifts your spirits.

I might, Proteus said. He was shy, diffident, but strangely arrogant too. The suggestion sounded too much like an order, so he just stood there.

It’s almost noon now, Mithias said, irritably.

So Proteus scowled and went through the door of their spacious nodule. He stood on the small plastic sidewalk, and looked up at the plastic trees. Down there, beneath him, where the real Earth was, who knew what was going on? Really? No one, he thought. Except for the scientific expeditions, no one went there any more. But then he stopped thinking as the rain began. Usually it excited him. Now he felt more depressed. It would rain politely for fifteen minutes. The water would run down the plastic drains and be saved and purified, and then fall tomorrow for fifteen minutes someplace else.

When he was small he had a schedule of all the rainfalls. He knew exactly where and when it would rain. His own nodule area held fifteen subites, with over a million people, and he’d run over the plastic sidewalks, frantic with excitement, keeping up with the rain.

He squinted up. Three clouds passed. They always did, at rain-time. If you didn’t know that the artificial sky stopped one-eighth of a mile up, or if you tried to forget it, like he used to, then you could imagine that the rain was real, and the clouds. They were real enough, he thought. Only they were man-made and regulated. He scowled, then grinned. Imagine seeing four clouds one day, or even two, how that would shake everyone up! But the rain fell from the sky of the floating city, and there would never be one cloud more or less. He almost wanted to cry but he didn’t, remembering his age.

What would a real flood be like, he wondered, or a windstorm? For a minute his eyes almost closed under the impact of sheer emotional excitement: he’d seen microfilms of ancient natural disasters in which the power of nature was unleashed, and now he imagined great brown curls of floodwater emerging from real rivers, torrents of rain that fell with great force, winds that whipped a world apart.

Yet Earth had survived. It was still down there. And down there great climatic changes still existed; heat and cold, as they were, despite their convenience or inconvenience to man. To be pitted against that—Proteus held his breath, almost whoosy with the thought of it—to exist in the context of nature! What excitement it must have generated. Just a real rainstorm, coming from nowhere—appearing out of … itself, out of nature, sinking down into real ground filled with dirt and bugs and roots!

His eyes stung. The polite rain was done. It was all sham. The plastic trees didn’t need nourishment. They didn’t grow. Psychologists thought that the Earth-type environment helped man feel secure. Proteus knew this, but now he stared angrily at the meticulous street and went back inside.

Mithias was waiting for him. There’s no way that you could set up natural life conditions inside a subite, son, he said. You know that. Don’t torment yourself. You’d have to go to Earth.

"Well, people do go there," Proteus said. His face flushed. He lowered his eyes.

But they don’t live there—

A few do! Microfilms mention them. Historians go down; scientists. They have to make repairs on their equipment sometime.

So what? his father said. There’s no future on Earth. The whole place is drained dry, useless, stripped of anything worthwhile. It’s just a husk. He paused and said more gently: "And Proteus, you are a boy, not a girl. It’s true that your opportunities aren’t as extensive as they might be, but there are plenty of places for you to fit into, here. Even if there were opportunities on Earth, and there aren’t, then they’d go to women."

Proteus looked out the window. The sidewalk was already dry. The suction equipment had absorbed all the water so that none was wasted. He turned so that his father couldn’t see his face. Everything’s the same all the time, he said, dully. Don’t you ever think about how fantastic it must have been? Just people with all colors of skin. That alone. Now we’re all homogenized.

At this Mithias laughed. What’s wrong with everyone having olive skin? he asked. You’re just arguing for the sake of it now. There’s all kinds of variations if you want to look for them, from yellow-olive to brown-olive to—

Olive-olive, Proteus said. You just don’t understand at all. Centuries ago there were black men and white men and yellow men—

And they all fought with each other, Mithias said, wearily. Now there’s one less thing to fight about. The races merged. What’s so wrong about that? Will you stop trying to pick an argument with me, and find something constructive to do?

Proteus nodded, but he realized suddenly that he was finished arguing. His father wanted him to do something constructive, and he would. Somehow he’d get to Earth. Somehow he’d re-create an ancient farm there. Instead of dreaming and being frustrated, he’d act. Someday he’d stand on real ground, while real rain fell, and then this would seem like the dream.

You’re going to have trouble with that one, Cyprus said to Oversoul Seven. They were conversing in the further reaches of the room’s plastic dome.

Well, he’s not one of my favorites, Seven said. He’s so gloomy half the time.

Cyprus waited. Then she said, There’s a connection that you seem to have missed. Shall I point it out to you?

No, give me another chance, Seven said. I don’t need any more demerits, not even one. He reviewed the entire scene, including the thoughts he’d received telepathically from Proteus. Then he blushed. Of course, the farm! Proteus wants to set up a farm on Earth. It’s just possible that he had a dream last night about a farm or a picture of one—

Exactly, Cyprus said.

Well, Proteus has had that idea for some time, Seven said. But if he did participate in Josef’s dream, he’d use it in his own way, of course. You know, in a way he acts older than Lydia. He broods so.

Cyprus smiled. Do you know why?

No.

I’m sure you’ll discover the reason for yourself. It’s not up to me to tell you. But now suppose we look in on your Ma-ah.

Oversoul Seven was delighted to change the subject….

35,000 B.C.

The wolf cubs sped across the cliffs in the moonlight. Ma-ah crouched in the shadows, waiting. She was hungry, but then she usually was, her belly pushed in almost to her backbone. She ran across the cliffs when the wolf cubs vanished, and scurried to the clearing where they’d been forced to leave the kill they’d found. She’d frightened the cubs off by throwing rocks. Rampa came over from the other side of the cliff. He’d used bow and arrows. The two of them found little: only a dead hare. But they ate it at once, ravenously.

The hides they wore protected them somewhat against the wind and they crouched, unspeaking, while the ice cracked along the cliffs almost in sequence, and the air rushed in and out of the rock crevices.

Cyprus said to Oversoul Seven: I didn’t know you were that adventurous.

Oversoul Seven shrugged with just a hint of smugness. Then he said: Proteus should experience this, if he wants to know what the real Earth is like. He’d probably plead for some artificial pretty rain that stops on time.

Cyprus smiled but said nothing.

Ma-ah and Rampa finished eating. They ran down into a nearby cave, pulling in out of the cold; satisfied. The damp smell of the hides rose to their nostrils. Their bellies felt warm from the food. A sense of peace descended upon them. They fell asleep. Their satisfaction was transmitted to Cyprus and Seven, who also felt the cold wind that rushed past the cave entrance.

I could make the wind die down just a bit, couldn’t I? Seven asked.

Cyprus nodded.

Oh! oh! Seven said. The change in the wind had alerted Ma-ah even in her sleep. In a moment her spirit body came out of the cave. She saw them.

Oh, it’s you, old man, she said.

She’s very good, Seven said to Cyprus. But she always sees me as an old man.

"Why not? You always are an old man when I see you, Ma-ah said. Are you going to help me keep watch tonight?"

Not tonight, he said, adding to Cyprus, Uh, I help her watch sometimes when she’s tired, so the wolves don’t find the cave.

You know that you’re out of your physical body? Cyprus asked.

Of course, Ma-ah said scornfully. If I didn’t go out in the spirit at night, who’d watch over my body while it slept? Only I don’t like to get too far away from my body. Rampa hardly ever comes awake when he’s asleep. Whose spirit are you?

I’ll tell you sometime, Cyprus said. Then she and Seven disappeared.

"Ma-ah always sees me as an old man, Seven sighed. Come to think of it, she sees me as black because she’s black. Josef sees me in lots of different ways, but he likes to see me as an old man, too. It gives him confidence in me, for some silly reason. But Proteus never sees me at all."

So? Cyprus said.

"Well, none of them see me as I am, male and female, ageless, beyond any image. Even Lydia. I mean, she doesn’t let herself believe in her soul at all, at least not on an intellectual level."

Now who’s brooding? Cyprus said. You sound as downhearted as Proteus.

Proteus! He’ll probably never see me if he keeps on the way he’s going, Seven said. But you’ve already met Josef, so I presume that this part of the examination is over.

I’d like to see him when he’s awake in his time, if you don’t mind, Cyprus said dryly….

1615

Just as Oversoul Seven and Cyprus arrived at Josef’s, there was a tremendous pounding at his door. Josef Landsdatter moaned, bounded out of bed, ran his fingers through his bushy hair, and almost sobbed. He’d never felt so cornered in his life.

Coming. Yes. Yes, he shouted. He hoped that he sounded enraged, impatient, anything but scared. He grabbed a paintbrush, dipped it into a jar of varnish, held it between his teeth, and threw open the door. I’m working. Working. Can’t you see? I’m busy. But come in, if you must.

Elgren Hosentauf reminded himself that his wife was watching from the first-floor landing, so he strode through the door briskly. It was after all his house, his extra room. The place was a mess of rumpled clothing, tossed bedding, paint jars, and canvases in various stages of completion. Ah, were you sleeping or painting? My wife swears that you were still in bed.

What does it look like? Do you think I sleep with my paintbrush in my mouth? Josef pushed the brush toward Hosentauf’s nose so that the smell of fresh varnish made the older man’s eyes water and his nose run. You distrust me, Josef said, now that he had the advantage. You’ve always distrusted me. How can I work under such conditions?

Hosentauf stepped back. All right. But my wife tells me that you eat more than ten farmhands put together, and I won’t be taken advantage of. We’ve yet to see a glimmer of our painting. You’ve been here six weeks now, eating our good food, using our nice room. The painter my cousin had did his portrait in two weeks and was gone.

And the painting probably won’t last much longer than that, Josef retorted, getting into it. A good artist needs time. He pointed dramatically to the draped easel. Your portrait is covered, I’ve told you. It makes me nervous to show a painting before its done. And it took me a good two weeks to get started as it is; your wife put me in such a mood that I couldn’t think, much less paint.

Shush. Hosentauf’s light blue eyes lowered. Some of the belligerence drained from his face. He’d been shaking his finger at Josef. Now he fussed with his shirt instead, and looked almost pleadingly up into Josef’s stormy face. My wife is impatient to see the painting. Women, they cannot wait.

Ah, don’t I know, Josef said, as if they shared a dark mysterious secret. But very soon now I’ll unveil the portrait. He threw his arms out dramatically, smiled grandly. "You will see your family immortalized through the ages. The Hosentauf Family. The portrait will go down through the generations, from father to son—"

He’s a lazy clout, and you should put him out in the snow like the cur he is, yelled Avona Hosentauf from the stairs.

Flinching, her husband closed the door.

Ahh, very well, shouted Josef. I’ll burn my painting rather than give it to the likes of that one. None of you deserves fine art. You’re worse than shopkeepers. He rummaged through the room, picking up his belongings. Then he stopped in front of the covered easel.

You will never be completed, never, he moaned. Some silly woman prevents it. Ah well, if they resent the few morsels of food I eat, the use of this tiny room in exchange for a masterpiece—

Hosentauf was an unimaginative man, at least generally speaking. It didn’t occur to him at this point that anyone could fake such anguish. Now, now, he said hurriedly. I’ll talk things over with my wife. I’ll see what she says. He backed out of the room and closed the door.

Cyprus and Oversoul Seven were now two flakes of snow on the windowsill. Embarrassed, Seven said, Josef’s very excitable. Just then, Josef threw the cover off the easel, displaying not a half-completed painting at all, but the empty canvas beneath.

And quite deceitful, Cyprus said.

No, no, I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be, Seven answered uneasily, because obviously it wasn’t going to be one of Josef’s better days.

Josef stared at the canvas hatefully. Blank. All blank, he muttered. Bah! Completely disgusted, he planked down on the bed. Hosentauf wouldn’t be back, he knew, but his wife would, with her eldest son. They’d boot him out. There’d be no more hedging or excuses. He’d be back on the plains on his skis, with his supplies on his back, cold and hungry, until he could find another farmer willing to give him bed and board for a painting. And worst, he just couldn’t make himself paint anything at all.

This time his torment was quite real. He threw the sticky varnish-covered brush across the room and wondered what to do.

Your dream, Oversoul Seven said. Cyprus, can’t I remind him? The painting I gave him in the dream! He’s forgotten all about it.

No, you cannot, she said. No prompting in this part of the examination. You know that. Twenty-five demerits in case you have any ideas.

"Examination or not, I mean, he is in trouble," Seven said.

Oh, somebody help me, Josef moaned.

How many demerits? Seven asked.

Twenty-five, and you have several already, she reminded him.

And you still won’t tell me what happens if I fail? Or pass?

She said gently, That’s part of the examination, too. You have to find that out.

Oh, dear God, I’ll never lie or cheat again if you’ll just help me now, Josef prayed.

Your dream! Seven transmitted the words directly into Josef’s mind. The painting in the dream!

The instant transformation in Josef was extraordinary. Suddenly he shouted, leapt up from the bed, threw his arms around himself, and danced about the room.

Oversoul Seven almost burst with excitement himself.

Cyprus made a determined effort not to show any expression at all, and to guard her thoughts.

Get to it, Seven signaled Josef.

Now, standing before the easel, Josef grinned from ear to ear. In his mind’s eye, as clearly as he’d ever seen anything in his life, he saw an oil painting of the Hosentauf farm in the summer, the fields rich, the sturdy house surrounded by tulips. The greens glowed with vitality. It was in the middle of the season, with only sneaky touches of brown hinting at the over-ripeness that would be its own undoing. Even the grays beneath the yellows and whites of the house suggested that the farmhouse, while secure, would not triumph over time. Yet somehow the overall effect was still one of vitality, as if the entire scene would endure even while it was so physically vulnerable. He’d never seen a painting so clearly in his mind before.

The canvas was coated, all ready to work, and as the thoughts went flying through his mind, Josef’s hands were busily mixing the colors for his palette, combining the dry pigments with linseed oil. He felt swift, sure, godlike, with this sudden unexpected rush of inspiration. Singing, almost shouting, he began to paint.

Partaking of Josef’s experience, Oversoul Seven forgot everything else. Once when Josef picked the wrong color, Seven called, No, no, you’ll spoil it. You want earth tones there. Another time he cried, No, you dunce, this is only the underpainting.

Cyprus waited, never interfering. Only once she spoke. This part of the examination is only supposed to involve a brief viewing, she said, making her tone as neutral as possible.

Yes, yes, I’ll be with you shortly, Seven muttered. Then, No, no, transparent color there. Not opaque, he called to Josef.

Five hours of Earth time passed. There was a knock at the door. Go away. I’m working, Josef shouted.

The door flew open. Mrs. Hosentauf and her eldest son, Jonathan, came pounding into the room. Ahhh, now maybe we’ll get a look at the painting that isn’t there. I want to see underneath that cover. I don’t believe a word you say— Mrs. Hosentauf shouted. Then she and her son both stopped, speechless.

Now you see. Go, go leave me alone, Josef muttered. Nothing mattered but the painting.

It’s of my lovely house, Mrs. Hosentauf said. It’s beautiful.

An inspiration, Jonathan said. Man to man, let me apologize.

Apologize then, and let me work. Can’t you see I’m busy? I’m not finished. I’ve barely begun—

And you’ve started the portrait too? Jonathan asked hastily.

Yes, yes, yes, Josef cried automatically.

Liar, Seven shouted, to Josef’s mind. You promised not to lie or cheat again.

A sudden pang of guilt just made Josef angry. He wanted to get on with his painting. ‘You’ll have your portrait in good time, he said. Can’t a man have peace to work?

Mrs. Hosentauf and her son moved toward the door, almost deferentially.

Josef yelled after them, triumphantly: The house was meant as a bonus to repay you for your great kindness.

Oh, Josef, Seven sighed.

Cyprus said, You realize what you’ve done, of course: become so involved in Josef’s difficulties that you’ve forgotten everything. Even the examination.

Seven came back to himself with dismay. But I have to wait till he finishes the underpainting, now that I’ve started, he said. Then Josef can do the rest himself well enough.

I’ll speak to you when you’re finished, then, Cyprus said. For a moment Seven wondered why he couldn’t pick up more of Cyprus’ thoughts, but already she was gone. Seven stayed there while Josef continued to paint, his brush like a perfect extension of the picture in his mind.

Chapter Three

Ma-ah’s Trek: The Earthization of Oversoul Seven — Part Two of the Examination

Oversoul Seven and Cyprus were two points of light.

I chose Lydia’s study for our discussion for several reasons, Cyprus said. For one thing, the next part of your examination will definitely be Earth-oriented, and in ways that you may not suspect—

Suspect? Oversoul Seven said. I don’t like the implications of that word. Are you sure you’re using the language properly?

Yes, I am, and I used the word purposely, to give you a clue as to what might happen, she said. For another thing, we have to take Earth forms, invisible of course, and I want you to relate to the environment the way humans do. For example, let’s get off the windowsill and move properly into the room. We’ll sit in one of those chairs there.

Now tell me precisely where and when we are, Cyprus said. She materialized, to Seven at least, as a young woman of mature years, or as a mature woman of young years. Either way it seemed to fit. Yet if you kept looking at her, she became a young man of mature years or a mature man of young years. She laughed: "It’s according to which part of my personality you focus on. I’m not as Earth-oriented as you, and I just can’t get all of myself into an exclusively male or female form. No one ever does, of course. At my level it’s just more apparent.

"But what form do you want to adopt? she asked. You’ll have to use it for all of our discussions, so make up your mind. For one thing, I want to see how good you are, remembering details."

Seven’s point of light wiggled indecisively. I hadn’t counted on a test of form, he said. But since details are important, I’ll pick something with as few of them as possible. What about a glowing round orange ball?

No, she sighed. A human form.

Seven grinned and adopted the fourteen-year-old guise he’d used in the first part of the examination. Now to answer your questions, he said briskly. This is a day in April in the year 1975, in the northeastern part of the United States, which is a country, and it’s four o’clock—

Oh, I see, Cyprus said. Four o’clock is in the United States, then—

Not exactly—well, yes and no— Seven said. "It’s four o’clock here in the study, but that doesn’t mean that four o’clock is here—"

"If you can’t explain when we are, and how when fits into where, no wonder you have trouble keeping track of your personalities, Cyprus said. But never mind. I have something quite serious to discuss with you. I’m giving you a multiple-choice section next, so listen carefully."

Seven frowned, but Cyprus continued. The second part of the examination was dependent upon your performance in the first part, she said, though as you know, all of it is really taking place at once. But several things have become apparent. I feel as if I know Lydia and Josef much better than I do Proteus. And Ma-ah I know hardly at all—

Hmm, Seven said. He sat docilely enough in his best fourteen-year-old male form, but he was beginning to feel a flash of irritation.

Could it be that you didn’t tune into Proteus and Ma-ah as well as you did the others? Cyprus said. You couldn’t get away from Ma-ah fast enough, it seemed to me.

"It’s just them, Seven answered, rather put out now. Proteus is gloomy a good deal of the time. Ma-ah sees me as an old man, always, I told you that, and she always wants me to do something boring, like keeping watch over the cave. Well, she’s quite demanding."

I’m afraid that you’ve been a very distant oversoul to both of them, Cyprus said severely. "That’s one of the issues we hope to take care of in this examination. You have to learn to relate to your personalities better. And why do you think Ma-ah sees you as an old man? Never mind, don’t answer me now. And she doesn’t see you as a jolly old man either, which would be something quite different. No, Seven, those qualities you see in Ma-ah and Proteus are your own, too, a fact that you conveniently forget. And you don’t come to grips with them at all."

"But I’m not gloomy, Oversoul Seven cried, or demanding either."

You can only endow your personalities with your own attributes. They’re born from your own joy and vitality and creativity, but they also have your characteristics. You’re their raw material, so to speak—

I don’t like that phrase much either, Seven said. I like to think of myself as their … creator, or of them as my creations.

Just as I thought, Cyprus said. Oh, Seven, I don’t know how you’ll ever reach Oversoul Eight stage.

You’re leading up to something, Seven said. And you tricked me into making my last statement—

You tricked yourself into that, she said. But the fact is that you don’t relate well to Proteus and Ma-ah at all. And worse, you’re playing favorites. As a result, both of them are missing something important that only you can give them. They’re each missing a part of their soul—

Seven was so upset that his image blurred around the edges.

Watch your form, Cyprus corrected. There you go again. Details are important, too. I don’t mean to be overly severe, but suppose something like that happened to Ma-ah? Or Josef?

Josef would get out of it somehow, Seven said.

But Ma-ah wouldn’t?

You’re just trying to confuse me, Seven wailed.

This must be your low point, Cyprus said dryly. Oversouls don’t cry—

I’m not crying. I’m wailing. There’s a difference, Seven said. Anyway, why not? he added defiantly.

Because when they’re using all their abilities, then they see more clearly; and they know that there are no obstacles, only those you believe in. But never mind, here’s Part Two of your examination. It’s an in-depth Life Composition.

Oversoul Seven regained his composure.

You have a choice between Ma-ah and Proteus, Cyprus said. But you must focus your attention on one of them and identify as best you can with whichever one you choose.

It sounds easy enough, Oversoul Seven said. But I have a feeling that there’s something you aren’t telling me.

That you’ll have to find out for yourself, she said. Which one do you choose?

Well, I suppose I should do Ma-ah because I related to her poorest of all, Seven said. All right, I choose Ma-ah.

Remember, you must try to identify with her as well as you can, Cyprus said, And with that portion of you from which she came. Good luck, dear Seven.

Cyprus, wait. I’ve a lot of questions!

Oh, it’s you again, old man, Ma-ah said.

Oversoul Seven just frowned. Cyprus was gone. Lydia’s study was gone, and instead Ma-ah stood in her spirit body outside of her everlasting cave.

Why do you always see me as an old man? he asked.

If you’re not one, why do you look like one? she retorted.

"I don’t look like one, that’s the point," he said.

She shrugged. I don’t care if you do or don’t, but at least you could be pleasant.

I’m trying to be, he said, irritably. And I’m apt to be around for some time, so I wish … oh, never mind. This is a great start, he said to himself.

But Ma-ah had already gone back into her body. She didn’t have the greatest disposition in the world, Seven thought, looking about. The cold wind swept scraps of dry weed past his face, and the cliffs were white with frost. Seven sighed: she didn’t have the greatest environment in the world, either. The cliffs rose straight up in the air, making dry curious noises as if the rocks were coughing.

Seven was impervious to the weather, but he found the view fascinating and he entertained himself by dematerializing from the valley, appearing on a cliff peak, and looking down at where he’d just been. Then, guiltily, he remembered his instructions: Identify as best you can with Ma-ah, Cyprus had said. Clearly, he thought, she had something else in mind. Uneasily he went into Ma-ah’s cave.

She lay asleep on a few hides, bundled in another that was used as cloak and cover. Her brown straight hair was matted, all emphasis gone from her dark face, making her look vulnerable and more like twelve than the twenty Earth years she had to her credit. Seven sighed again: Cyprus was right, he had maintained too great a distance. Unaccountably he felt suddenly drawn to Ma-ah as he never had before. At the same time, a curious lassitude possessed him.

He saw Ma-ah’s mate, Rampa, sleeping beside her, but then without warning he felt Rampa’s breath coming in warm waves at his own face, astoundingly close. His viewpoint changed too. Rampa was now beside him; beside … Ma-ah. He was feeling Rampa’s breath from Ma-ah’s body…. Because he was in Ma-ah’s body!

How odd settling down into a real body was! Ma-ah wasn’t aware of him, of course. Since he was Ma-ah and Ma-ah was himself, there was no conflict. Yet so far she only knew herself as Ma-ah, and him as the old man when she was out of her body. Seven was confused. He tried to get his thoughts in order. In one way, then, he thought, he was getting to know himself better by getting to know her.

Still, Seven’s consciousness wriggled uneasily. To be confined to one body for all practical purposes—it wouldn’t be like changing forms whenever you wanted to, as he did. To have the responsibility for keeping the same body going all the while! The details involved really threw him for a loop when he thought of it. Of course, his energy helped maintain her body to begin with—his was the spark, so to speak, from which her body grew, from which her spirit had come, but….

He stopped that line of thought, aware of the strangest ambiguity. Being in a real body was so intimate; he could feel his consciousness nestling in all the atoms and molecules. He was aware of their million separate yet combined consciousnesses; so tumultuous, like the infinite buzzing of innumerable bees, warm, too close, throbbing. For a moment he felt frightened, confined.

On the other hand he was transfixed, fascinated, attracted to the body experience as to a magnet. He’d never allowed himself to enter the complete physical experience of one of his personalities before. For one thing, he’d never been invited, but suddenly it occurred to him that far more than that was involved. All Oversouls were individual, and related to their personalities in their own fashion. He was adventurous, and he’d set himself and his personalities some great challenges; but the truth was, he didn’t want to get too involved. Worse, he was beginning to suspect that his personalities were setting him some challenges too.

Like right now. This full alliance with flesh and blood was startling; pleasant and unpleasant, and it was growing more unpleasant each minute. He felt … clotted, thickened, caught in a rich, dizzy gestalt of interaction. That was enough of that!

Seven roused himself. But nothing happened. His consciousness was intact, whole, itself, yet it was somehow dispersed throughout Ma-ah’s body, stuck in the cells and wiggly organs, locked in labyrinthine tangled chambers of bone and blood.

The body’s left shoulder was cold. That’s what cold was. He knew the meaning of the word, but the feeling of draft, of empty wind blowing on exposed flesh, this was something new. Seven felt the tiny hairs on the arm raise, arch, stiffen. They stood up so taut and straight that it seemed they’d pull right out of the flesh. Ma-ah turned over suddenly in her sleep, shoving the shoulder beneath her. The hairs instantly softened.

Seven groaned. Ma-ah’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t seem able to manufacture any vision of his own, or do anything for that matter, but experience reality through her body. Cyprus, this is too much, he called mentally, but there was no answer. He shivered, or Ma-ah did. He wanted to turn the wind down as he’d done before, but now he was imprisoned in Ma-ah and at the wind’s mercy as she’d been, (and was)! You could at least turn the wind down, he moaned to Cyprus, but again there was no response.

His first day was incredible. He experienced morning, noon, and night in sequence, through the body’s senses as Ma-ah did. No more mixing and matching of times and seasons. He saw the world from her viewpoint. That is, he saw only what she saw, though he could interpret events in his own way. He’d never felt so limited. He couldn’t get out of Ma-ah’s day, no matter how he tried.

By late afternoon it was already growing dark. Again the wind began rising. A low moon appeared on the horizon. Ma-ah and Rampa finished eating some particularly bitter roots that they’d gathered during the day. The remainder they strapped about their waists with a rope made of tough weeds. Looking through Ma-ah’s eyes, Seven realized that they were too far away from the cave to make it back by nightfall, and the cliffs here rose straight and smooth-faced, offering no chance of shelter. The body was very cold. The hides rubbed against the skin with irritating regularity, and the hide moccasins were badly worn. The feet, Seven realized, were losing all feeling.

So far the body sensations had taken all of Seven’s attention. He’d never handled such a barrage of constantly applied stimuli without being able to shut it off at will. He heard what Ma-ah said to Rampa, but he was so engrossed in the tongue’s feelings and the sensations involved in speech—the rush of air through the throat—that he ignored the conversation itself.

Didn’t she know the feet were near-frozen? Didn’t she know that the body needed help?

Then, as if in answer to his questions, Ma-ah’s emotions avalanched upon his consciousness, only they snuffed his out. He could feel his own awareness disappear beneath sudden fear, anger—the words and feelings instantly translated. "It’s Rampa’s fault. I shouldn’t have listened to him. I knew we went too far. My feet! and he’s limping."

The emotions immediately transformed the body. The shoulders slumped, the mouth drooped. The blood was called to too many places at once. The belly swelled; gas collected. Seven felt himself crushed, threatened to extinction. (Scared silly, Cyprus would say, later.)

But he roused himself, pulled himself up from the maze of Ma-ahness. He knew something important. What was it? Desperately he tried to make a small point of silence, a framework to hold him above all that tumult. He knew what to do and where to go, if only he could make himself remember. The confusion of body noises, activity, and emotions was still there. But Seven hung his consciousness above it all somewhere, like a spider in the rafters of a high ceiling, and brooded.

Ma-ah trudged on. Seven distinguished her voice now from the other jungles of vowels, syllables, gurgles, and body sounds, keeping track of what activity was happening inside her, and what originated from without. Rampa’s voice, coming from the outside, definitely affected the inside of Ma-ah’s body, though. Whenever Rampa spoke, a variety of mixed responses were aroused in Ma-ah’s consciousness, and each of these had instant physical repercussions. Her emotions rose and fell in such staggered rhythm that for a moment Seven confused it with the rise and fall the thighs made in walking.

But he managed to cling to the precarious nest of silence he’d made, and he concentrated as hard as he could. Unfamiliar webs of energy grew from his alertness. He could feel them. They went stretching out into the night, searching. Finally they pointed clearly to the southeast. But why? What did they mean? Seven only knew that he must follow them.

Their body fell down. Again, without knowing how he did it, Seven picked the body up and started it walking once more. All the while, he kept concentrating. What was it he knew and had forgotten?

The webs of light moved again. They converged on one particular cliff not too far away. And suddenly the rock became transparent to Seven. Within it he glimpsed light, distance, and activity. Seven grappled with the problem. He knew he