By Eleanor Arnason

 

Translator’s Note:

The translation of Goxhat poetry presents many problems, due in part to the Goxhat language, but also to the biological and social realities that underlie the language. The foremost problem is the Goxhat’s ambiguous sense of personal identity. Much of the time, Goxhat think of their entire species as a single being. When not thinking of the species as one undivided self, they regard their “teams,” groups of four to thirty-two Goxhat, as individuals. Single Goxhat are called “aspects” or “parts” and are rarely seen as independent entities; although a famous poem, “The Counter of Waves,” describes the last survivor of a Goxhat team, beaten down by many ocean voyages.

Other problems have to do with Goxhat gender (there are four sexes, male, female and two forms of neuter) and the Goxhat child-rearing system. The young grow up in crèches amid large groups of unrelated children. Professional “childherds” care for them, and they meet many adult Goxhat of all sexes, who come to the crèches to pet and play with them. But they don’t know their parents, or any relatives, as individuals, and kinship plays no part in their upbringing.

All of this is hard to translate in a way that is meaningful to humans. Hardest of all is the Goxhat economy: a huge commercial game similar to human capitalism, except the Goxhat do not play for keeps. Instead, every sixteen years they settle up. At that time, the winners of the game are announced and rewarded. The size of their award depends on how often the team has won, though it always includes the right to lay fertile eggs. A first-time winner may receive a modest victory poem in addition to reproductive rights. A four time winner, or Grand Champion, will get an epic and a public monument. When the award ceremonies are over, the game’s “chips,” property of every kind, are redistributed throughout the entire species, and the game begins anew.(1)

In sum, the translator has to find a way to make comprehensible and sympathetic the poetry of a species with a different (and possibly nonexistent) sense of personal identity; a different number of sexes; no recognizable families, and an economic system which strikes humans as ludicrous.

Last of all, there is the problem of the poetry’s form. Unlike most modern human poetry, it does not rely on rhyme, but on alliteration and a strong beat. In this, it is similar to ancient Germanic poetry. In addition, the mood of many Goxhat poems—bleak and dark with a haunting sense that happiness is transitory—seems oddly like the mood of a small body of ancient Germanic literature, interesting largely because it is written in a language which is one of the roots of modern humanish.

In the hope of making “The Glutton” more accessible, this translation has been based on that literature, as it has been translated into humanish. The rare student of Anglo-Saxon who reads this will recognize the image of life as a bird that flies through a brightly lit building. Lovely in its original human version, it replaces a Goxhat simile, which is untranslatable.

 

Those were the days.   Great were the teams

That labored for gain,   leaving no stone upright,

But all turned over,  their grubby(2) bottoms

Bare to the heavens   and other Goxhat.

 

Factories fumed.    Bridges extended

From bank to bank,    bringing wealth

To bright-eyed builders.   Keen investors

Knew the proverb    caveat emptor,

Made their profit   through thought and care.

 

As birds soar    seeking fishes

Day after day     over distant waters

Merchants went,    provident wanderers

Seeking profit    in sleek-hulled ships.

 

Carved prows   crested the billows.

Long oars   cut waves like knives.

Sails ate wind,    filling their bellies.

Bold-eyed sailors    minded the sheets.

 

Sixteen the team,    raised together

The same crèche giving   all to the world.

Four were men,    hardy rowers.

Four were women,    deft climbers of rigging.

The rest were neuter,   skillful traders,

Their cool minds knowing    profit and loss.

 

Strong legs bore    wide, hairy bodies,

Piercing-eyed   with knife-sharp pinchers.

Each was handsome,    each ambitious,

Keen for fame   and honest profit.

 

So they came    the fearless shipmates

To a harbor     below steep cliffs.

Dark the shadows    hanging over

Sturdy houses    and stone-built piers.

 

Streets were empty,    windows broken,

Wind howled through    once-rich stores.

Looking around    each part of the hero

Asked the others,     “What’s going on?”

 

Soon to the hero    an answer came,

A grey-haired Goxhat   crawling slowly

On crippled legs.   One arm was missing.

“There is a monster    haunting here.

 

“Long ago   a team was ship-wreaked.

On a bare isle   bereft of life.

Water welled   from an icy fountain,

Amid bare stones   that bore no growth.

 

“Long they survived   on scavenged shellfish,

Storm-driven seaweed,   the fountain’s flood,

Till hunger gnawing    drove them crazy.

Some chewed their fingers.   Some ate their mates.

 

“Think of this:  a stony island

Ringed with foam,  cold wind booming

And waves crashing,    while the crazed team,

Split into pieces,  hunts itself to death

 

“Till one remains,  all the rest

Reposing in it.    Strong at last, it left,

Broad arms striking   the fearsome billows,

Beating water   like iron on an anvil,

Swimming here    to haunt our land.

 

“Sometimes it thinks   it’s a crowd,

Full of teammates. They speak in its mind.

Sometimes it thinks    the world is empty,

And it alone alive.   Sometimes it’s dead;

And the universe is nothing,   a dream that fades

From a ghost’s mind.   Always it hunts.

Huge from its    horrid diet,

It tears our bodies    and takes the wealth we made.

 

“Fine gold     has fed its greed,

Good machines    and fishing smacks,

Handsome markets.   Most of all, ourselves.

None comes back.    No settling day

Returns wealth    to those who made it.

The game of commerce,    dear to Goxhat,

Never starts again…”

 

(Several lines have been lost.)

 

The hero spoke:   “This shall not continue!

Death is the doom    of those who break rules,

Gobbling gain    through violence garnered.

A game’s not a game   when played without limits.”

 

(An entire section appears to be missing.)

 

Ghastly and grim,    the glutton came in then,

Breaking the door down.   The hero rose,

Brandishing pinchers,    in hands holding knives:

Sixteen together,   hairy and handsome

In vigorous youth,    as yet fearing little.

 

A Goxhat moon   full and yellow

Lit the monster,   brightly shining

Through roof-gaps   roughly rent.(3)

Rearing up,   its should-be-hidden

Gaping mouth  was shown to all.

Teeth gnashed.   A tongue protruded,

Grossly waving.   The hero struck.

 

Fierce the fight   and fell the ending.

Two neuters   were gathered up,

Arm-tucked   and quickly carried

From the wrecked house    to high cliffs.

There the monster   crouched,

Gnawed and tore   the captive neuters,

Wise in counsel.   They screamed with pain.

 

(Like a bird   fleeing storms

That briefly flies    through an all-night market,

We have warmth and light,   comfort and happiness,

For moments only.   Soon we return again

Into driving wind    and freezing rain.

The wise know this     and savor what’s bright.)

 

Bones fell,    licked of marrow.

Empty skulls   bounced to teammates,

Who gathered up   the gristly fragments,

Grieving greatly.   Now a neuter spoke,

Cool of mind,  caring nothing for revenge,

But only rightness   and a lawful gain:

 

“Nothing cuts the glutton.    The monstrous change

That made it huge    has turned its hide to iron.

Knives will not help us,    nor piercing arrows,

Sharp-edged swords,    spears with blades that bite.

Wrapped in isolation,    hardened,

The monster’s safe…”

 

(Another section is missing. The story resumes when the hero, ten parts or aspects still alive, tracks the glutton to its lair, a seaside cave.)

 

Descending    sheer cliffs

To a sheltered harbor,    dark and still,

They craftily came,    each part clinging

To rough rock    with supple fingers.

Across their backs   were slung thick cudgels,

Their pinchers held    nets of twisted rope.

 

Below them    muttering in shadow

The glutton   argued with the selves

It had eaten.    Each in turn

Spoke with the monster’s voice,

Complaining of murder    and autophagy.

The monster excused:   “It was me or you.”

“We are your other selves!”

“No one is me

Save me only! I alone am I!”

So back and forth,

The monster argued,   until the hero rushed

In the gaping entrance    and tangled it with nets.

 

Great the struggle,    though they hit it hard

With heavy cudgels.    Still it dragged them

Cross the stony floor    and into water.

Deep they sank,    held as one

By thick ropes,   hero and monster,

Murk around them   and sucking mire.

 

Sight was useless.    Their pinchers grasped

The monster’s arms and legs    with hair like wire,

Holding tightly,     twisting as they held,

Till bones broke,    poking through the skin.

Blood gushed.    The glutton roared in pain.

 

Rising from the darkness   wrapped in rope,

It floated on the surface   like a harpooned fish

In red-tinged water.    The hero popped in sight,

Eight parts only.    Two never rose,

Nor were bodies found…

 

So they brought    the dying beast to shore,

Speared with its own bone,   butchered from within.

From its bloody maw    came angry voices:

The eaten partners   crying for revenge.

 

Two neuters still were left.   They said,

“Not revenge but balance,    the brass bar even,

abacus beads arranged in order,    shining,

A statement and explanation,    we offer.”

 

“Blood,” cried the bloody maw.   “Payment. Gain.”

And ‘Blood,’ again.”   Then the beast was gone,

Voice bubbling to silence.   The hero found

Great treasure in its cave   and took this home.

 

(1) This does not mean the Goxhat disassemble great concentrations of capital every sixteen years. If they did, they would not be the economic powerhouse they are today. Instead, at the time for settlement, the “commanding heights” of capitalism become cooperatives, which are often taken over by canny teams during the new game.

(2) The stones’ bottoms were covered with the immature members of species ecologically and physiologically similar to burrowing insects on Earth.

(3) The missing section probably described the monster “roof riding” or “shingle stomping” before it broke the door.

 

Eleanor Arnason PhotoEleanor Arnason published her first story in 1973. Since then she has published six novels and 30+ works of short fiction. Her fourth novel, A Woman of the Iron People, won the James Tiptree Jr. and Mythopoeic Society Awards in 1992. Her fifth novel, Ring of Swords, won a MInnesota Book Award in 1994. In recent decades she has concentrated on short fiction, though she is currently finishing a novel, a sequel to Ring of Swords. “The Glutton” is one of several stories about the Goxhat, aliens who live in the universe of Arnason’s Lydia Duluth stories.

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