A Far Sunset, page 9
Poul Mer Lo was trembling. He was also sweating profusely. And, sweating and trembling, he could visualize the scene almost as clearly as Nemo.
‘Tell me more,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Tell me more of this vision that came to you in the night.’
‘Lord there is no more to tell. I saw and was afraid.’
‘What of the voices, then?’
Nemo frowned with concentration. ‘The voices did not seem to come from the creatures, lord. They came from the god.’
‘Try to remember, Nemo, what they said. It is important.’
The boy smiled. ‘They, at least, did not frighten me, lord; for they spoke chiefly in riddles.’
Poul Mer Lo wiped the sweat from his forehead and forced himself to be calm. If he could not stay calm he would never get the rest of the story from Nemo. And it was important that he should learn all that the boy knew. It was more important than anything else in his life.
‘Tell me these riddles, Nemo, for it may be that I shall understand.’
Nemo looked at him curiously. ‘Lord, are you ill or tired? I should not weary you with my unimportant thoughts if you are not well.’
Poul Mer Lo made a great effort to control himself. ‘It is nothing, Nemo. I am in good health. Your story interests me … What were these riddles?’
Nemo laughed. ‘All men are brothers,’ he said. ‘That, surely, is a fine riddle, lord, is it not?’
‘Yes, Nemo, it is a very good riddle. What else?’
‘There are lands beyond the sky where the seed of man has taken root … That, too, is very funny.’
‘It is indeed funny … Is that all?’
‘No, lord. There is one more riddle – the most amusing. It is that some day the god with the tail of fire will unite all the children of all the lands beyond the sky into a family which will be numberless, as are the drops of water in the Mirror of Oruri.’
‘Nemo,’ said Poul Mer Lo quietly, ‘what you have dreamed is a most wonderful dream. I cannot understand how these things could be made known to you. But I believe that there is much truth in what you have seen and heard. I hope that you will have such dreams again. If that happens – if you should again receive the grace of Oruri – I hope also that you will tell me all that you can remember.’
Nemo seemed relieved. ‘Those afflictions will not bring madness, then?’
Poul Mer Lo laughed – and tried vainly to suppress the note of hysteria in his voice. ‘No, they will not bring madness, Nemo. Nor are they afflictions. They are the gift of Oruri.’
At that point Mylai Tui came from the house with a calabash and a jug of watered kappa spirit. Seeing her, Nemo scuttled away. He and Mylai Tui hated each other. Their hatred was the product of jealousy.
‘Paul,’ said Mylai Tui gaily in English. ‘I wish you to drink. I wish you to drink as I drink, so that the joy will be shared.’
She poured some of the watered kappa spirit into the calabash then raised it to her own lips and handed it to him. She seemed happier than she had been for many, many days.
‘What is this joy of which you speak?’ he said haltingly in Bayani. His head was reeling.
‘Oruri has looked upon us,’ explained Mylai Tui.
‘I am no wiser.’
Mylai Tui laughed. ‘My lord, you are great with wisdom but not with perception.’ She pirouetted. ‘Whereas I,’ she continued, ‘am now indisputably great with child.’
TWENTY-ONE
It was in the seventh month of the reign of Enka Ne the 610th that the forest tribe known to the people of Baya Nor as the Lokhali attacked the temple of Baya Lys. Although Baya Lys was three days’ journey from Baya Nor overland, it was only one full day’s journey away on the Canal of Life. Apart from the ignominy of having a temple desecrated and its priestly occupants put to death in various dreadful ways, the Bayani felt that this warlike tribe was getting too near to the sacred city for comfort.
Accordingly, Enka Ne declared a holy war. The standing army of Baya Nor was swollen by volunteers; and when the oracle decreed that the time and circumstances were propitious for victory, over two thousand men moved off into the forest along the overland route.
Poul Mer Lo had asked to be allowed to go with them, not because he had any desire to participate in the kind of bloody vengeance that the Bayani were eagerly anticipating, but because he remembered the last evening of the religious progress on which he had been permitted to accompany Enka Ne the 609th.
While he was spending a restless night in one of the guest cells of Baya Lys, Shah Shan had come to him, bringing a bundle that had contained one plastic visor, two atomic grenades and a wrecked transceiver. These, said Shah Shan, had been found by the priests of Baya Lys near a blackened hole in the forest – in territory that was near to the land occupied by the Lokhali.
When Poul Mer Lo had suggested that Enka Ne might treat with the Lokhali to obtain news of any survivors from the Gloria Mundi, Shah Shan had rejected the idea instantly. The Lokhali, he had explained, lived for war. Not only was it impossible to have peaceful relations with them, but it was also beneath the dignity of the superior and civilized people of Bay Nor.
There the matter had ended. Since that time, Poul Mer Lo had not pressed his suggestion, knowing that in matters of this nature even Enka Ne, alias Shah Shan, had a closed mind.
But now the Lokhali had broken the uneasy state of peace – or, more accurately, non-war – that had existed between them and the Bayani. It was a golden opportunity for going along with the avenging army and trying to discover if any of the Lokhali had encountered any survivors of the Gloria Mundi. Twelve people had travelled in the star ship. Three were accounted for. But of the remaining nine there had been no news whatsoever. The forest might have swallowed them. Or the occupants of the forest. There was no trace of them save the relics that Shah Shan had brought to the guest cell at Baya Lys.
Poul Mer Lo’s application was rejected. It was rejected in person by Enka Ne in the Temple of the Weeping Sun.
It was the first and last time Poul Mer Lo had audience with Enka Ne the 610th. Unlike his predecessor, he was an old, old man. The ceremonial plumage lay ill upon him. His bird cry was thin and reedy. He strutted sadly, like one who was too heavily burdened with care and responsibility – which, probably, was the case.
‘I am told you are a teacher, Poul Mer Lo,’ he had said.
‘Yes, lord, that is so.’
‘It is the province of a teacher to teach, is it not?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Then teach, Poul Mer Lo, and leave more weighty matters to those who know how best to deal with them. The hunter should remain with his darts, the warrior with his trident, and the teacher with his – what is the word you have given us? – sku-ell.’
Then Enka Ne uttered his desolate bird cry, indicating that the audience was at an end. As Poul Mer Lo withdrew, he heard the god-king vainly trying to stifle a paroxysm of coughing.
The expedition against the Lokhali was brief and successful. After eleven days, the victorious army – minus about four hundred and fifty casualties – returned to Baya Nor with nearly one hundred prisoners.
Enka Ne addressed the prisoners at considerable length in the sacred city, regardless of the fact that they could not understand a word of what he was saying. Then he decreed that every eighth man should be set free, without food or weapons, to make his way back – if he could – to the land of the Lokhali, there to report on the clemency and omnipotence of Enka Ne. The remainder were to be crucified on the Fourth Avenue of the Gods to demonstrate the vengeance of Oruri and the unprofitability of attacking Bayani temples.
On the day of crucifixion, which had been declared a day of celebration and rejoicing, Poul Mer Lo, in common with several thousand Bayani, strolled along the Fourth Avenue of the Gods.
Apart from the fact that nearly ninety men were dying in a slow and altogether gruesome manner, the scene was vaguely reminiscent of a terrestrial fair or carnival. Cheapjacks were offering various delicacies and novelties, jinricksha men – using two-wheeled carriages, by grace of the stranger, Poul Mer Lo – were doing a roaring trade in slow journeys between the rows of wooden crosses. And children were working off their surplus energies by pelting the dying Lokhali with stones, offal and small aromatic missiles compounded of excreta.
Poul Mer Lo, steeling himself against the suffering, passed the dying Lokhali, one by one, and tried to observe them with scientific detachment.
He failed. The stench and the pain and the cries were too much for him. He did not even notice that they were all taller than the Bayani or that most of them possessed four fingers and a thumb.
However, as he passed one who was clearly in extremis, he heard a few words – half murmured, half moaned – that stopped him in his tracks and brought back visions of a world that he would never see again.
‘Grüss Gott,’ sobbed the Lokhali, ‘Grüss Gott! Thank you … Thank you … “chantez de faire votre connaissance” … Man … Woman … Good morning … Good night. Hello! Hello! Hello!’
‘Where are they?’ demanded Poul Mer Lo in Bayani.
There was no response.
‘Where are they – the strangers?’ he repeated in English.
Again there was no response.
‘Ou est les étrangers?’
Suddenly the Lokhali’s body jerked spasmodically. Then he gave a great cry and hung slackly on the wooden cross.
In a fury of frustration, Poul Mer Lo began to shake the corpse.
But there was no miracle of resurrection.
TWENTY-TWO
Paul Marlowe was no longer quite so dissatisfied with his ‘Extra-Terrestrial Academy’. In the last few months both Zu Shan and Nemo had made quite remarkable progress. Once Paul had managed to convince them that it was both a privilege and a pleasure for any thinking person to find out as much as possible about the world in which he exists, and that knowledge brought the power to accomplish much that could not be otherwise achieved, the boy and the crippled child became filled with insatiable curiosity.
It was as if something had exploded in their minds, sweeping away all the inhibitions, the closed-thought attitudes, and the deadening traditions of centuries of Bayani culture. The sophisticated savages became primitive scientists. They no longer accepted what they were told. They challenged it, they tried to refute it, they asked awkward questions. By Earth standards, Zu Shan was about fifteen – three or four years younger than his dead brother – and Nemo could not be more than six. Yet hardship and suffering had brought them a premature maturity. So that when they did eventually grasp the importance of learning, they began to learn at a very high speed.
The same could not be said of either the one-armed Bai Lut or Tsong Tsong. They did not have the spark. Their minds would never get into top gear. Temperamentally, they were hewers of wood and drawers of water. They lacked imagination – and that strange ability to take an intuitive leap into the dark. They were content to play with toys, whereas Zu Shan and Nemo, though not above playing with toys, also wished to play with ideas.
Zu Shan, sensing perhaps that there was more to be got from his teacher than could properly be expressed in Bayani, began to learn English. Nemo, not to be outdone, also elected to learn what was for all practical purposes a ‘dead tongue’.
But, besides providing the means for expressing new concepts, it gave them a sense of status to be able to talk to Paul in his own language. It gave them, too, a sense of intimacy, and drew the three of them close together.
Zu Shan was never quite as fluent as his brother in speaking the language of the stranger; but he soon learned enough to say all that he needed to say – if he took his time about it. Nemo, though younger, had an advantage. He had already discovered that on occasion he could establish sufficient en rapport to read minds.
The three of them were sitting on the verandah step one evening while Paul sipped his kappa spirit. It had been a hard but pleasant day, for they had completed the building of the school. It contained chairs and tables, a potter’s wheel, a small furnace for baking pots, a few kappa leaf charts and some tools that the boys had designed themselves. It also contained four rough beds. It was the first boarding school in Baya Nor.
‘You are looking far away, Paul,’ said Zu Shan. ‘What are you thinking about?’
Nemo smiled. ‘He is thinking about many things,’ he announced importantly. ‘He is thinking about the stars, and about the words of the dying Lokhali soldier, and about the star ship in which he came to Altair Five, and about a white-skinned woman. I have been riding his thoughts, but there are so many different ones that I keep falling off.’
Nemo’s favourite description for his telepathic exercise was ‘riding thoughts’. To him it seemed a very accurate description; for he had discovered that people do not think tidily, and that their mental processes are frequently disjointed – which was why he could not receive for very long without ‘falling off.’
Paul laughed as the tiny crippled Bayani recited the revealing catalogue. ‘You will get yourself into trouble one of these days, Nemo,’ he observed. ‘You will ride a thought which tells you that I am about to drop you into the Canal of Life.’
‘Then I shall try to avoid the disaster,’ retorted Nemo complacently.
‘Have you had any new dreams recently about the god who brought forth strange children from his belly?’
‘No, only the old dream. I have it quite frequently now. I’m getting used to it.’
Paul sighed. ‘I wish you could arrange to dream in greater detail. I wish, too, that I knew where you got the dream from. It could, I suppose, be something you have picked up out of my dreams.’
Nemo rolled his oddly ancient eyes. ‘Lord,’ he said in Bayani, ‘I would not dare to trespass in your sleeping journeys.’
Suddenly Zu Shan sat upright. ‘I have just remembered something that may explain Nemo’s dream,’ he said. ‘Have you ever heard the legend of the coming, Paul?’
‘No. Tell me about it.’
‘It is a story that mothers tell their children,’ went on Zu Shan. ‘It must be very, very old … You know, of course, that Oruri can take many shapes?’
‘Yes.’
‘The story goes that long ago there were no people at all in the land of Baya Nor – I mean, on Altair Five – but that Oruri looked down on this world and saw that it was good. Therefore he came and stood on a white mountain and looked over the land. And out of his great happiness, many people were born, and they walked down from the mountain to play as children in the new world that Oruri had found. According to the legend, Oruri stands waiting on the white mountain. He is waiting until the people are tired of their play. Then they will go back to him and he will return with them to the world from which he came.’
‘It is a good legend,’ commented Paul, taking a draught of his kappa spirit. ‘The plot thickens, does it not?’
‘What do you mean, Paul?’
‘Only that I cannot help seeing Oruri as a star ship … I think too much of star ships, these days … And yet … And yet Nemo dreams of creatures in strange metallic clothing. And his god descends on a column of fire as a star ship would. And the god opens his belly …’
‘Paul.’
‘Yes, Zu Shan?’
‘If the hunters are to be believed there is such a mountain – many days’ travel to the north. They call it the Temple of the White Darkness. They say it is protected by strange voices, and that a man may approach it but the voices will either turn him back or drive him mad. They say that if he is courageous enough to approach the mountain, he will only stiffen and die.’
Paul Marlowe took another drink of the kappa spirit. ‘I am not surprised, Zu Shan. I am not at all surprised … You have never seen snow, have you?’
‘No, you have told us about it. But I don’t think there is anyone in Baya Nor who has ever seen it.’
Paul felt suddenly elated and happy. Maybe it was the kappa spirit. Or maybe …
‘Do you know,’ he said, after a brief silence. ‘I think you two are going to make history. I think you are going to see snow.’ He hiccupped. ‘Damn it, I wonder how much ring money I shall need to buy the services of half a dozen really good hunters?’
‘Paul,’ said Zu Shan, ‘I do not think there is enough ring money in Baya Nor to persuade six hunters to go through the Lokhali country towards the Temple of the White Darkness.’
‘I have something better than ring money,’ said Paul. ‘It is about time I showed you my sweeper rifle. Your brother, who permitted me to keep it, is the only Bayani who has ever seen what it can do.’
TWENTY-THREE
Unintentionally, the one-armed Bai Lut, a youth without any great degree of intelligence or initiative, changed the course of history not only on Altair Five but on many worlds about which he would never know. He changed the course of history by building a kite. It was a beautiful kite constructed of slivers of springy yana wood and with the wind-catching surfaces painstakingly woven from musa reed which, when separated into its fibres was used to weave musa loul, the kind of cloth known to the Bayani.
The kite had taken Bai Lut many days to make. It was in the shape of a giant guyanis butterfly. Bai Lut had dreamed of building such a kite for a long time. Having only one arm, he had to work hard with his toes as well as his fingers. When it was finished, he regarded his achievement with awe. It was truly beautiful. He would have been quite content to die after such an achievement – or, at least, after he had seen it fly successfully – for it did not seem possible to do anything greater in life.
He prayed for a smooth, steady wind. His prayer was answered. And, with about two hundred metres of ‘string’ made from twisted hair – which had taken longer to manufacture than the kite itself – he flew the musawinged guyanis and watched it soar joyously over the Canal of Life and lean high, almost yearningly, over the Mirror of Oruri towards the sacred city.
It may be that Bai Lut had prayed too ardently to Oruri for a wind. Because, when all of Bai Lut’s string was extended and the kite was as high as it could go, a great gust came – so suddenly that the string snapped.
