Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [91]
“I am afraid that the title of my latest exposition is not translatable.”
“That’s okay.” Cheelo waved grandly. “I’ll think of it as ‘Human Eating Fish.’” Scarfing down the rest of his supper, he leaned back and began licking grease and bits of white flake from his fingers. Suppressing his distaste, Desvendapur began.
In the tropical night, surrounded by the sounds of the rain forest’s emerging nocturnal inhabitants, words mingled with whistles sharp and soft, with clicks that varied in volume and intensity from that of tiny tappings to a rhythmic booming that might have been generated by muffled drums. Accompanying this stately carillon were intricate dancelike gestures, weavings in the air executed by four limbs and sixteen digits. Antennae twisted and curled, dipped and bobbed, as the insectile alien body swayed and contorted.
At first the sight was somewhat frightening, but as Cheelo grew more comfortable with the thranx’s appearance he found himself starting to think of it not as a giant bug but as a sensitive visitor from a distant star system. The scent of fresh flowers that emanated from the hard-shelled body certainly played a large part in effecting his change in perception—not to mention attitude. As for the performance, even though Desvendapur was right and Cheelo understood little of what was being imparted, it was undeniably art of a complex, sophisticated order. Poetic, even. While he understood nothing of what the creature was saying, the confluence of sound and movement conveyed a grace and elegance the likes of which he had never encountered before.
Growing up poor and forever on the fringe of society, Cheelo Montoya had never had much of an opportunity to sample anything other than the crudest kinds of art: violent tridee recordings, raucous popular music, unsophisticated pornography, cheap stims, and low-level hallucinogens. He was aware that what he was hearing and witnessing now, alien though its origins might be, comprised creation of a much higher order. At first amusedly contemptuous, the longer and more intricate the thranx’s interweavings of movement and sound became, the quieter and more solemn Cheelo’s expression grew. When a quietly triumphant Desvendapur finally concluded the performance, the sun had set completely.
“Well,” he prompted when no response was forthcoming from the silent, seated human, “what did you think? Did you get anything out of it, or was it all nothing more than alien mumblings and twitches?”
Cheelo swallowed—hard. Something crawled over his left hand without biting, and he ignored it. In the nearly complete darkness the light from the flashlight was stark on the thranx’s blue-green exterior.
“I…I didn’t understand a goddamn word of it, and I think it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
Desvendapur was taken aback. It was not the reaction he had anticipated. A polite gesture of courtesy, perhaps, or a mumbled word of mild appreciation—but not praise. Not from a human.
“But you say you didn’t understand.” Taking a chance, presuming on an acquaintance that was still untested, he moved forward, out of the throw of the flashlight and into proximate darkness.
The human did not shy away. The scent of fresh-picked posies was very close now. In the shadow of night his absurdly tiny but nevertheless sharp eyes searched those of the thranx. “Not your speech, no. Not a word of it. But the sounds you made, like music, and the way all four of your hands and the rest of your body moved together with it—that was wonderful.” He shook his head from side to side, and Desvendapur