Split Infinity

Rested and fed, Neysa set out at an easy trot across the field, still bearing west. Trots could be rough or smooth; this one was the smoothest. She could have looked like a drudge, yet fetched a high price on Pro-ton, for the sake of this trot. As if such a creature could ever be sold, for any price! Then she moved into a nice canter with a syncopated beat: one-two-three-pause, one-two-three-pause. A canter, to his way of thinking, was a trot by the forefeet and a gallop by the rear feet;

it too could vary greatly in comfort, depending on the steed’s nature and mood. Stile enjoyed this; how nice it was to ride this fine animal without fighting her!

Neysa shifted into a variant of the trot: the pace, in which the left feet moved together, and the right feet together also. Two beats, throwing him from side to side, but covering the ground faster than an ordinary trot. Then back into a canter—but not an ordinary one.  Her rear hooves were striking the ground together, synched with her right front hoof, so that this was an-other two-beat gait: a single foot alternating with three feet. One-TWO! One-TWO! He had to post over the shocks, lest his bones begin to rattle.

She was showing off her gaits, proving that no horse could match her in variety or facility. Yesterday she had demonstrated gaits from one-beat to five-beat; now she was doing the variations.

“This is great stuff, Neysa!” he said warmly. “You are the most versatile hoofer I know.” For this was an aspect of companionship: performing for an appreciative friend. Animals, like people, would do a lot, just for the satisfaction of having their efforts recognized.  Though Neysa was not precisely an animal or a person.

Just when Stile thought he had experienced the whole of her repertoire, Neysa surprised him again. She began to play music through her horn. Not an occasional melodic note, but genuine tunes. Her hooves beat counterpoint to the sustained notes, making a dramatic march.

“The five-beat gait!” Stile exclaimed. “That’s what it’s for! Syncopation, going with your music!”

She moved into the five-beat, playing an intricate melody that fit that beat perfectly. This time her motion was easy, not designed to unseat him, and he liked it.  Stile was no longer surprised by her comprehension; he had realized, in stages during the prior day and night, that she comprehended human speech perfectly, though she did not bother to speak it herself. When he had indulged in his soliloquy on the ledge above the Meander River, she had understood precisely what he said.  His meaning, not his tone, had converted her. That was good, because he had meant exactly what he said.

Now he could give her detailed verbal instructions, but she preferred the body directives of legs and weight-shifting. She moved to his directives with no evidence of those messages apparent to any third party. That was the riding ideal. She was at home with what she was: a unicorn. Stile, too, preferred the closeness this mode entailed; it was the natural way, a constant communication with his steed.

Neysa’s horn-music resembled that of a harmonica.  No doubt there were many small channels in her horn, with natural fiber reeds, and she could direct the flow of air through any channels she wished as she breathed.  What a convenient way to play!

“You know, Neysa—I know something of music myself. Not just whistling. I was introduced to it by a girl a bit like you, in your girl-form: very small, pretty, and talented. I’m not the top musician in my world, but I am competent—because music is part of the competition of the Game. You wouldn’t know about that, of course; it’s like a—like a continuing contest, a race, where every day you race someone new, in a different way, and if you get really good you gain status. I have won Games by playing themes better than other people.  The violin, the clarinet, the tuba—I’ve played them all.  I wish I could accompany you! I suppose I could whistle again, or sing—“ He shrugged. “But I’d really like to show you what I can do with an instrument. One like yours. Another harmonica. So we could play together.  A duet. There’s a special joy in that, as great in its way as—as the joy we had in our game of the night. With an instrument, I could come to you, as you came to me, sharing your frame.”

Neysa accepted this as she did most of his commentary: with a wiggle of one ear and tolerance. She didn’t mind if in his vanity he thought he could play the way she could. She liked him anyway.

Stile pondered briefly, then made a little verse of it.  “The harmonica is what you play; I wish I had one here today.” He fitted the words to her melody, singing them.

Neysa made an unmelodic snort, and Stile laughed.  “Corny, I know! Doggerel is not my forte. All right, I’ll quit.”

But the unicorn slowed, then stopped, then turned about to retrace her last few steps. “What’s the matter?” Stile asked, perplexed. “If I offended you, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your music.”