Complete Short Fiction, page 128
That domination was almost literally complete. It was so complete that there was not a stirring in him of difference. Ptath was Holroyd. It was a Holroyd, perhaps, who took the reality around him a little too much for granted, a Holroyd who might have been on his way to the Gonwonlanian equivalent of a madhouse if lie had actually been in his own body.
But, except for that, the merging of god and man into man was so thorough that even the god memory had a dreamlike quality.
It was the supremacy of his personal identity that made the woman’s intimate acceptance of him confusing as he walked toward her, slowly.
She had not moved from her first position. Her eyes were dark and luminous; her black hair hung down the back of her head cascade fashion, but it was not well combed. Her face was pretty and young in a rough, countrified manner. She was definitely only a girl, her body well built on youthful lines.
Holroyd saw that she was watching his survey of her, a faint, enigmatic smile on her lips.
“Pay no attention to this form, Holroyd,” she trilled finally. “It is that of a peasant girl named Moora who lives with her father and mother a quarter of a kanb from here.”
Paying no attention to her was easier said than done. She glowed with life. When she turned to walk along the trail her movement had in it such a springiness of youth, such an easy grace, that Holroyd stopped and stared.
Hurriedly, however, he fell into step behind her, treading the narrow path wordlessly for several minutes. But at last:
“Where are we going?” he asked. “And what about the screer?”
No answer. They were deeper in the forest now. Trailing vines hung clown from the trees. And so dense was the leafy foliage overhead that the long, slanting rays of the morning sun did not penetrate the gloom in those depths. It was a silent world of half light.
“How is it,” Holroyd called, “that I reached the city of Ptath in one night’s flying?”
“Wait with your questions,” came the silvery answer. “As for the screer, you need it no more.”
The walk kept on. Holroyd thought of how the night just past had lasted and lasted; and his sense of danger increased; the consciousness that every minute that unfolded could bring titanic surprise grew strong.
Was he, who had been lured into a dungeon, following without question the woman who had lured him into it?
“See here—” Holroyd began. And let his words trail.
The pathway, that had been so confining, was widening; a clearing spread out and there, a little to Holroyd’s right, was the small building he had seen from the air.
No sign of life showed. And over everything lay a profound stillness.
The silence extended to the house. It was a one-story structure, nice-looking, a design of skillfully cut wood. It looked neat, as if pleasant, wholesome people had lived there.
Had lived.
The deserted effect was relieved by the fact that there was a rug runner in the outer hallway. Standing on the threshold, Holroyd looked first at the alcove that opened at the right to what must be the living room; and then he looked slantwise at the girl.
“I am glad,” she said earnestly, “that you are cautious about entering. But think! It was necessary that I trick Ptath into entering the temple dungeon in order that Holroyd might be reborn. As for the rest, be assured that I will go first wherever I ask you to go.”
It wasn’t, Holroyd told himself, that he had had any real doubt once she herself had entered, but—
But why was he here at all?
He shook his head dubiously. Then gave his attention to his surroundings. The living room was scantily furnished. There were hard chairs, a rug, a chest, a table, a wooden light stick hanging from the ceiling and in one corner on a dais—
A glowing metal bar. It extruded from the center of the dais. It shone with a dull violet radiance. Holroyd saw that the girl was following his gaze.
“A prayer stick!” she said. “Oh, Ptath, I—”
Prayer stick! This then was the source of the Goddess Ineznia’s god power. Holroyd moved toward the dais, eyes wide, intent. How did it work? Just what did it do?
He turned toward the girl in a blaze of curiosity—and realized that she was still talking:
“Moora’s parents are away, and we are alone, Ptath, you and I alone for the first time in . . . in—”
She hesitated, then sighed. “The time,” she went on wearily, “has no meaning. It is so long that I have died a hundred million deaths for need of you, so long, and yet, Ptath, my great pride is that I have been faithful.”
Her voice trilled on, more eagerly now: “Once more I shall be all women for you. Today, you can claim me as a peasant girl named Moora; tomorrow I shall be the beautiful girl from the silver city of Trinano, whom you see by chance in the street; the day after that a fancied lady of the court shall lie in your arms, and once more it will be really I, your happiest wife. Thus it was with us in the old days; so it will be again. Of course there is first of all this wretched business of Ineznia.” Holroyd hardly heard the last sentence. It was what went before. Every word was still quivering in his brain, the meaning of every syllable as distinct as the print in a book.
The hard, bright thought came that no blitz soldier should feel at a loss in a situation like this, except—
“But look here,” he heard himself say, “do you mean to tell me that you actually used to take possession of other women so that—”
He couldn’t go on. He saw that the girl was staring at him. There was a moue of disappointment wrinkling her lips.
“Oh, Ptath,” she chided, “it is you who have changed if you find wrongness in what we did of old. You were the philanderer. I but yielded to your desire. It is your will and yours alone to which I shall conform always.” There was nothing to say to that. The justice of the reproof was only exceeded by the strange pliancy of character revealed by the confession. A woman who catered to every abnormality of her husband’s lusts. L’onee, Holroyd thought, L’onee, what feet of clay you have. No wonder your real body is lying enchained in a palace dungeon, prisoner to someone who looked at least a little bit beyond pleasure.
“Look,” Holroyd said slowly, “you didn’t bring me here just to make love to you. And, besides, I want to know how you did it. How did that screer fly so straight to where a peasant girl waited beside a clearing in a jungle?”
“Another thing,” he pressed on, “that accident of the driver falling off the screer—was that an accident?
“Wait!” His voice was a resonant force. He waved violently toward the dais. “This prayer stick! How does it work? It seems to be made of metal, almost looks like steel. And the funny part of that, when I think it over, is that it’s the first metal I’ve seen since coming to Gonwonlane.”
He finished: “Well?”
Her expression was quiet now. A shadow of a smile touched her eyes and then was gone. But Holroyd did not miss the faint amusement. Better watch out, he warned himself. This woman’s character was undoubtedly more complicated than any single facet of her might indicate.
After a moment she had still made no answer.
She stood studying him; and it was very curious, the intent expression in her eyes. As if she was considering his reaction to something that was still only in her mind.
Abruptly, she walked over to the dais, from which protruded the prayer stick. She beckoned Holroyd, and there was an odd commanding note in her voice, as she said:
“Take my hand, and I will show you how the peasants pray. It is important that you learn about this, as it is from the totality of billions of such sticks as this that god power is derived.” Holroyd shook his head. He had no sense of making an abrupt decision. The will, the consciousness had been growing on him; and now, quite simply, he knew that he was not taking another step forward that involved collaboration with anybody or acceptance of anybody’s statements.
He had been rushed along with a blinding speed. That was over. Above everything else he needed a few days to think things over, orientate himself, and plan his future actions. He grew aware that L’onee must have realized the reason for his reluctance. She came hurrying back to him.
“Don’t be foolish,” she said earnestly. “There’s no time to waste. Delay of any kind might be fatal.”
There was nothing to say to that. Beyond doubt dangers existed. It didn’t matter. It was simply not in his nature to go on charging forward into the unknown.
His silence must have seemed like hesitation. The girl, with an impatient gesture snatched his hand, and pulled at him.
“Come,” she urged. “No matter what else you do, you must learn about this.”
Her strength was surprising, but Holroyd disengaged himself with a quiet finality.
“I think,” he said, “that I am going to pay a visit to the city of Ptath before I do anything else.”
He turned, and without a word, without waiting for her to speak, walked into the hallway and out of the house.
Twice, while the tiny place was still visible, he looked back. But there was no movement, no sign of life.
Silent as a house of evil, it stood in the light of the early-morning sun and vanished from his sight as he plunged into the dense undergrowth.
VII.
The jungle was warm and muggy, and it took about an hour of steady westward walking to break out of it.
Holroyd stopped short. He had come into the open on a hillside and there was a long line of hills facing him, barring any view he might have had of the city of Ptath. To the north was a dark, glittering sea.
But he scarcely noticed that.
It was the valley below that held his attention. The valley was a military camp. It swarmed with men and beasts and buildings—and women.
The presence of the women puzzled. But after a moment that wonderment cleared. Of course! This was a permanent encampment, with establishments for married men.
Maneuvers, or some kind of training, seemed to be in progress.
He watched the unfamiliar pattern of action for a while. There seemed to be a lackadaisical quality about everything. The grimb-mounted cavalry galloped in a leisurely fashion, the riders carrying long wooden lances, and they had a habit of swerving their beasts out of line before a group of women, conversing for a minute, and then cantering off after the main body.
It looked disgraceful, even from a distance, though there was probably an explanation for it.
As far as Holroyd could see in either direction along the valley were soldiers and buildings to house soldiers, shining white in the sun.
There was nothing to do but cross the valley. If he avoided Ptath’s acquisitive tactics, he should be able to thread his way without even being noticed.
He estimated the distance at five miles—an hour and a half.
He was about a third of the way across, passing quietly near a group of men and women, when there was a thunder of heavy paws. A long line of grimbs roared by within ten feet of Holroyd.
Most of the riders looked at him curiously. But one man, a tall, fancily dressed chap, with colorful feathers in his Alpine-type hat, stared in blank astonishment, then reined his great beast out of the line. He bowed low in his saddle.
“Prince Ineznio!” he cried. “Your unprecedented surprise visit will thrill the army. I shall inform the marshal at once.”
He whirled away toward the nearby group of men and women, leaving Holroyd—memory of what the temple prince had said—on the road: that Ptath resembled, not only the statue in the temple, but a man called Prince Ineznio.
Not until this moment had that vaguely remembered remark even remotely suggested danger.
Holroyd examined his situation with narrowed eyes. The valley was a world of movement of men and animals. There were buildings and soldiers behind as well as in front, and on every side of him. And coming toward hint was a throng of officers and their women.
There was no way out, utterly nothing to do but try to carry off the mistaken identity.
After a minute the possibilities of that were positively gigantic.
Why . . . why, if these people accepted him as Ineznio, he could learn from them the details of the army’s make-up; and then: the Nushirvan front!
His brain raged with the thought, the conviction that he could do it.
Who would dare to doubt an unkillable man?
He felt a sudden burning pride, an impatience with fear and caution, an intense, eager excitement.
Abruptly, the details of the impersonation ceased to be important, the almost certainty that his voice would not resemble that of Ineznio. It didn’t matter. He was Ptath, thrice greatest Ptath, the Ptath of Gonwonlane.
The identification clanged in his brain. With a savage confidence he watched as the group of officers and ladies reached him, paused, bowed low and—
And waited.
Waited, obviously, for acknowledgment.
Holroyd gave it, ringingly: “I am here to see maneuvers, details of training. Let them proceed.”
It was superbly done; only it was not Holroyd who had done it, but Ptath. No, not even Ptath exactly. It was the thought of Ptath’s identity that had brought the arrogant response.
Ptath was becoming more valuable, more integrated, every hour.
He saw that the group, having been recognized, was at ease. The women were mostly young and good-looking; they eyed him with a frank interest. Several of the officers, one of them with ten white feathers and five red streaming from his alpine hat, came forward.
The man was strong-faced, middle-aged; he said quietly;
“We are honored, lord. You will probably not recall our meeting at the palace when I was introduced to you. I am Marshal Nand, commanding the 9430th reinforcement corps, which is shortly to proceed to the Nushirvan front. We—”
His voice went on. But in spite of all Holroyd’s will to listen, he couldn’t. The flush of Ptath’s personality began to fade. His mind was bobbing like a cork in storm-tossed waters, at once stunned and absorbed.
The nine thousand four hundred and thirtieth army corps. Back home an army corps comprised anywhere from forty to ninety thousand men. His own impression was that he had seen more men than that in this green, luscious valley. But suppose it was the smaller figure.
Forty thousand men in one corps out of nine thousand four hundred thirty meant roughly ninety-four million times four—four hundred million men.
The shock dwindled. Actually, it was a small army for a country with a population of fifty-four billion.
Nushirvan alone, with its five billion population, should be able to place one billion men into the field of battle.
Holroyd drew a deep breath. There was a fascination inside him, a soldier’s singing fascination at the military potentialities of such vast and terrible armies.
He thought: Trained to blitz tactics, with screers as planes, and grimbs as tanks—
He shook with excitement.
Every minute the tremendousness of this vast land was becoming more apparent—the importance of staying alive, and living, actually living here, as he would have to do.
Holroyd-Ptath, the god ruler of Gonwonlane—
“And if you will come this way, most high excellency,” the marshal was saying, “I will have typical units perform for your benefit. Of the three hundred and fifty thousand officers and men in my corps—”
“Of the what?” said Holroyd. But he didn’t say it out loud.
He was aware of himself falling into step beside the heavy-faced marshal, his brain once more reeling out at a tangent. His original estimate must be increased ninefold. Thirty-six hundred million men not counting army corps above the 9430th.
Here were nearly twice as many soldiers as there were human beings on the earth of 1944—the greatest army in the greatest land that ever was.
His army, his land, if he could but grasp it; if he could but frustrate a goddess’ schemes, a goddess’ ambition—and take what was his.
Beside him, a woman’s voice said softly: “I am here, Ptath, in a new body, to help—to advise—you.”
Oddly, the woman’s words had a queer effect. They brought revulsion, a sense of having had unwholesome thoughts; Peter Holroyd, American, owning a world—damned undemocratic hound!
But he was also Ptath!
To hell with that, Holroyd thought grimly, and then, more blankly: He’d have to fight the insidious encroachments of the character of Ptath. The only thing was—
Could he? Could he hope to defeat that strong and elemental will?
The doubt made him cold with anger as he twisted to glance at L’onee’s new body. He calmed slowly. Her new form was that of a plump, middle-aged woman, and the selection interested him. Before he could speak, L’onee whispered again:
“Pm Marshal Nand’s wife. His mistress is over there to your left—don’t look now. Ptath, the army must be transformed and reorganized. Ptath, women were not allowed in army training camps until a few years ago when Ineznia decided to destroy you.
“She wanted to make sure that the army was not in condition to launch the attack you would have to make on Nushirvan just in case you ever got into position to make it.
“But the rebel officers have resisted the deterioration, and so the army’s basic condition is much better than she thinks.”
“My dear,” came the marshal’s voice from the region of Holroyd’s other shoulder, “you mustn’t whisper to his highness.”
“I was telling him something very important,” the woman pouted. “Wasn’t I, Prince Ineznio?”
Holroyd smiled, nodded. He felt, suddenly, immensely better. The quick, smooth reply of the woman thrilled him. This was life unfolding around him, moment by moment.
L’onee’s character had a lot in it that he didn’t like—But she was trying to help him. He tried to picture that, all that it meant. She had said her true body was imprisoned in a dungeon.
It was curiously hard to imagine the reality of that. He would have to rescue her, of course. Just how or when was as dim now as had once been the how of his attack on Nushirvan. He didn’t even know where she was imprisoned. And she couldn’t tell him.
