Ys

The people of Ys resemble us in almost every respect; indeed, if one were to encounter an Ysian on a crowded tram or collide with one in a busy public square, it would be near impossible to identify them as the citizens of a planet on the far edge of the Galaxy. Only on engaging one in conversation—or, for that matter, on sharing a meal—would the difference become evident, for, when compared to us, the Ysians are not only slightly longer in the tooth (I mean this quite literally, their canines being roughly half a centimetre longer than ours) but also maintain a strictly carnivorous diet. Even the thought of eating a vegetable fills them with an abhorrence bordering on the hysterical.

Anyone curious as to the reason behind this strange aversion may glean a hint while browsing one of the planet's many fine collections of art—more specifically, the wings and galleries that specialise in Ysian portraiture.

Were it to happen that an unfortunate visitor was, before disembarking their starliner, kidnapped, blindfolded, and taken directly to the National Portrait Gallery of Gun, the cultural capital of the planet's northern continent, said visitor would be forgiven for thinking that citizens of Ys, though roughly humanoid in form, were in true fact grotesque agglomerations of fruits and vegetables.

I have already mentioned, of course, that this is not the case. However, each time an Ysian is represented in any form of mimetic art, be it painting or sculpture, he or she is without fail rendered in this manner: as vegetal, never as flesh.

One of their most famous portraits, for example, by the Neo-Tuberist Kil-Jehan, of his mistress (the poet Kia-Saphia, nude) shows the woman as a mound of potato-like root vegetables that the Ysian call marrot; while the delicate features of her undoubtedly beautiful face—her aristocratic nose, her scarlet lips, her sultry eyes—have been rendered grotesque as a congeries of vegetal substitutions: a malformed parsnip; slimily glistening beetroot; wrinkled, squinting radishes.

The art historians of Earth may observe a similarity to the works of the 16th century Mannerist Giuseppe Arcimboldo; but while Arcimboldo was seen as something of a psychotic for depicting people as collections of flowers, fruit, and seasonal motifs, the practice among the Ysians is, on the contrary, entirely unremarkable. Only the incredibly avant-garde Ysian artists dare portray the human form as anything other than vegetal, and these seldom gain any real fame, their work being regarded as far too taboo to touch the hearts of the people.

For most visitors to Ys, this phenomenon remains a curiosity and nothing more, to be relayed as an amusing titbit after they return home, such that might be met with oh reallys? and how interestings! by the untravelled. Ys, though a popular tourist destination with its pleasant climate and lush, uncultivated landscapes, seldom entices visitors to stay for long enough to attempt anything approximating assimilation. The cuisine soon becomes somewhat monotonous and the Ysians, although friendly enough to visitors, are as a people rather cold and standoffish. But it is only after speaking to someone familiar with the Ysian language that one can connect these idiosyncrasies, of appetite and art, with something deeper in the Ysian psyche.

I spoke with one such person, a former attendant on one of the starliners who had married an Ysian man some years ago and settled in Gun.

What follows is her account:

"It was our first date—my now husband's and mine—and we had arranged to meet for dinner at a fancy restaurant downtown. When I arrived, I asked the maître d', in my then quite rudimentary Ysian, if there was a tall, dark-haired man with a beard waiting for me. I was fairly confident I hadn't misspoken, but the maître d' looked at me as if I was muttering gibberish—with total incomprehension! Luckily, my now-husband caught my eye from across the restaurant and waved me over to our table. When I explained to him what had happened, he laughed riotously. Unlike many Ysians, my now-husband is a well-travelled man and more self-aware than many of his fellows. He explained that I had described him using vocabulary exclusively used for quadrupeds: the equivalent of 'mane' or 'fur.'

"It was in this embarrassing manner that I learned that the Ysians, when describing one another, speak exclusively in terms of organic forms. A man's nose, for example, may be his 'pear' his 'leek' his 'kumquat,' depending on what his nose most resembles; should his ears be somewhat large, they may be referred to as his 'garlic bulbs'; his lips, if plump and tending to purse, his 'grapes.'

"It is through this strange system of metaphors that they see themselves—but, no, that is not the right way to describe it either; for you see, if I asked a person to point out to me his favourite facial feature, he might say he was most proud of his 'fennel,' pointing to his chin; and if I were to ask a stranger the same question of the man while pointing to him across the room, said stranger would reply in kind about the man's remarkable 'fennel.' What they see is not subjective, not metaphor; there is, despite how ludicrous it all sounds, some manner of objective truth in it.

"This came as a great shock to me, as it became clear that there was indeed a kind of shared reality to which I, as a non-Ysian, was not privy. Although to me they appear quite clearly as flesh and blood, they appear to one another, quite without delusion or subjectivity, as vegetal."

Is it any wonder, then, I ask you, reader, that their diet is completely carnivorous? For them, to eat a pear would be tantamount to eating a human nose! A sizeable marrow, an arm, a particularly curvaceous mushroom, an ear! The lady continued:

"Initially, this revelation amused me; I went about in a kind of frenzy, asking passers-by what was this?—pointing to my nose; what was this?—prodding at my eyes. What were these?—pulling wildly at my ears. Soon enough I had built up an image of myself as the Ysians saw me . . ."

Here, she suddenly went silent. I prompted her to continue, asking if that was now how she now saw herself. She furrowed her brow and after a long moment of thought, said that it was complicated.

When her husband told her that she was beautiful, when he complimented the various tubers, brassica, and fungi that made up her face and body, she admitted that in the passion of the moment, she could imagine herself the way he described, even imagine herself desirable in such a way.

Later, however, when she would look in the mirror at her naked form, she would find the idea almost intolerable. And when she walked the streets, she winced whenever she recalled how the people there truly saw her, that no one saw her as she really was.

"But it isn't only that," she continued. "It's that I, too, am not seeing anyone the way that they see each other; that no matter how long I live here, there is always a distance in understanding between us." Although she was quite fluent in Ysian now, she said, her perception remained alien. "Perhaps someday, I'll see things the way they see them," she said; although, if there was any trace of hope in her voice, I was unable to detect it.

***

Some time after my return from Ys, I found myself in a gallery in London, admiring a piece of Ysian art—a self-portrait by the Autumnal Expressionist, Kita-Bahn.

"God, how grotesque," said my partner, coming to stand beside me, draping his hand over my shoulder.

I shrugged him away, and stepped forward to observe closer the rotting pumpkins, the wilting ears of corn.

"No," I said. "I think it is beautiful, but not in a way that you or I will ever understand."