The Complete Hok the Mighty

by Manly Wade Wellman

  “You wanted to find me,” he taunted his two victims. “You found me. Ah, you have eaten too many fish, and your mouths gape. You are dying like fish drawn out of the water your flappings grow weak, weak they cease.”

  He released the two limp-grown forms, and they collapsed in one heap at his feet. Hok spurned them, but they were both finished. He chuckled again, without mirth, and rubbed his terrible hands together. Walking forward to the fire and beyond it, he stared at the lights of the village across the water.

  “I have disposed of the two warders, and without warning from this place none will expect me out there. What sort of place is Djoma’s village—an island?”

  Beside him was drawn up the canoe, hollowed by fire from a single log, but Hok did not know how to use such a device. He tested the lashings that moored Widow-maker to the girdle at his waist, then waded quickly into the sea-water. With powerful, silent strokes he swam toward the place where his wife and son were held prisoner.

  As he approached through the water, the fire-lights seemed to rise from before him to hang above him—they were kindled at a height. Now he drew close enough to see that an angular blackness, more solid than the mere gloom-color of the night, rose from the quiet waves. The island must be rocky. He paddled in noiselessly to where there would be a shore.

  But there was no shore.

  CHAPTER IV

  HOK was puzzled, his blue eyes narrowing in the dark. Was he swimming into a sea-cave? Turning over on his back, he groped to right and left with his hands. The cave, if it was such, must be very wide. He let himself float to one side, and collided with wood, apparently a tree-trunk growing out of the water at this point. Puzzled and cautious, he drew himself up and climbed it. For more than his own height he clambered above water level, holding on to old broken branch-stubs. Lifting his hand, he felt wood above him—solid wood, a seeming roof of it. If this was indeed a cave, then the cave was made of tree-stuffs instead of rock-stuffs, with water for floor. Hok slid carefully down again, and swam a little way back the way he had come.

  He began to skirt the village, trying to see what it stood on, if not an island. All he could make out at first was a cliff-like overhang that shut away the light of fire and stars. Then, around to one side, he came to where a hut stood at the very edge of things, with a fire at its doorway. People lounged there, talking. Hok lay low in the brine, and by the firelight made out the mystery in part.

  The seeming riddle was that this island-thing was truly made of wood—made by man, by Djoma and his tribe, probably started long before them by their fathers. Up from the harbor bed projected tree-trunks, on the forked tops of which had been laid rafterlike poles. These in turn supported close-laid crosspieces of wood, each the half of a split log with the flat side up. All this was bound by broad lashings of rawhide, dried until it was as old and hard as flint itself. Upon this platform stood huts, of mud-daubed wickerwork with thatch roofs, just as the huts of Hok’s own tribe stood on solid earth.

  It behooved Hok to learn more about this strange construction. He dipped under water and swam down to the base of one upright log. It had no roots in the sea-bottom, but had been driven there somehow, and was made solid by the heaping of big stones around it. Lashings to cross-bars, which were lashed in turn to other uprights, made it still more strongly set in place. Hok swam on around the village of the Fishers. He saw that it was of the same fashioning throughout—hundreds of big trunks, each painfully hewn on shore with stone axes, then floated out and planted on end in a predecided position, and finally the complex fabric of the platform woven and lashed and built upon the top of this artificial water-forest. He shook his drenched head in wonder. Such a work represented collossal effort and ingenuity. It must have taken years—lifetimes, perhaps. Finished, it gave the Fishers a fortress almost unvanquishable, where they could live securely, protected in the midst of the waters that also furnished their scaly food.[8]

  AT a corner near the shore was a low-set section of platform, its edges sloping down almost to water level. All around this were tied up the scores of dugout canoes that belonged to Djoma’s people. But on this platform was another sentry party, four or five men this time, gathered around a fire that had a hearth of flat stones set in clay. They would discover Hok if he clambered out, probably would kill him before he could gain his feet and defend himself. He must win foothold in the village at another point.

  Even as he came to this realization, something made a swishing sweep through the water at him.

  He kicked sidewise only in the nick of time. A shark, thrice his length, slid past like a javelin within arm’s reach of him, then brought itself round with frightening grace to make another ravenous charge.

  Hok dipped his right arm down under water, seizing the hilt of Widow-maker. With a jerk he broke the sword loose from its lashings at his waist. The shark was upon him again, and he saved himself from a crippling bite by putting his left palm on its ugly snub nose, letting himself be carried backward through the water. At the same time he brought up Widow-maker’s point, in the knowing way he had already learned. It grated on the coarse sandy hide, and he gave a vigorous shove. A moment later the shark’s throat was pierced and Hok threw himself strongly sidewise, dragging on the hilt and opening the wound into a terrible gash.

  The shark gave a convulsive leap clear of the water, almost disarming Hok as he dragged Widow-maker clear. It fell back with a mighty splash, and writhed past him, so that its coarse hard hide rasped skin from his shoulder. Hok swam swiftly away, for the commotion had attracted the attention of the sentries on the boat-platform.

  With yells and cries the men caught brands from their fire and held them aloft, shedding light over the sea. Hok, coming under the shelter of the higher platform well beyond, saw the waves he had just quitted being churned into awful turmoil.

  The wounded shark was being set upon by its comrades—a whole school of them. The harbor must have been well swarmed by the ravenous creatures, drawn to the village of Djoma by the mass of refuse thrown from its platform daily, and it was a wonder that Hok had not been molested before. Even now, some of the sharks that had gathered to the smell of gushing blood turned off to pursue him. With Widow-maker held crosswise in his teeth, Hok swiftly climbed one of the uprights that supported the platform, clinging to it just beneath the cross-logs, while sharks drew silently into a press below him. Immediately overhead there was a thundering, shaking rush—the struggle of the great creatures near the boat-platform was drawing a fascinated throng of Fishers to see and exclaim.

  HOK stayed where he was, with enemy warriors and their families racing above him and hungry sharks snapping just beneath his moccasin-soles, until the platform above him vibrated no longer. Then he caught hold of a horizontal pole, drew himself up and swung his weight upon the broad floor that supported the village. Quickly he crept between two of the deserted huts, glancing in all directions to make certain that he had been unobserved. This part of the village, at least, was completely deserted. Hok moved stealthily inward among the press of dwellings, toward a large central one which must be the habitation of Djoma.

  This was really a combination building, made up of several huts joined with tunnel-like passages to make a structure of several rooms that would house the chief, his family and dependents. Here, at least, remained someone—a guard, gazing wistfully in the direction of the torchlight and turmoil. He plainly stayed where he was under orders, to watch over something of value within.

  Hok felt that he was close to the thing he had sought. Slipping around the side of the house as noiselessly and grimly as a huge blond ghost, he clove the man’s skull with Widow-maker. Leaping across the body as it fell, he entered the place where Djoma lived.

  A few coals of fire burned upon a broad hearth of stones set in clay, and he stirred them up with his sword-point. At once he beheld one of the treasures the warrior had been left to protect—the captured bows that Djoma had gleaned from the field of that unlucky battle three days a
go. They were bound into a great sheaf, a good load for a strong man. Hok dragged them out, found a place in the platform where a split log was poorly fastened. He cut the stout lashings and pried the slab loose, then pushed the bundle of weapons through and heard it splash beneath. No Fisher would ever use those captured bows nor learn from studying them how to make similar ones—the tide would wash them out to sea. But this was only the smaller item of Hok’s double quest. Where were Djoma’s captives?

  He entered the hut again, peering around in the half-gloom. “Oloana!” he called softly. “Where are you?”

  “Hok!” came back a glad cry, and with a leap he was across the floor, hewing with Widow-maker at a woven door that blocked off one of the sections of the multiple hut. The tough withes that had made the basket-like obstruction fell to pieces before his onslaught, and from the dark hole thus exposed Oloana and Ptao rushed out. He caught one in each arm, and all three hugged, muttered and chuckled in their joy of reunion.

  “I knew my father would come,” Ptao found breath to say. “I told them that—both Djoma and Caggo. They laughed, but I knew from their eyes that they were afraid.”

  “Djoma and Caggo,” repeated Hok. “Djoma is the chief of these Fisher-folk, I believe, but who is Caggo?”

  “The son of Djoma,” Oloana informed him. “He has spoken of taking me as his wife. I scratched his face once, and he keeps away, but he swears to tame me.”

  “I will find occasion to speak to Caggo,” promised Hok, “but first, to get you free of this place, which smells of rotten fish.”

  “That you will never do,” growled a voice behind them.

  CHAPTER V

  INTENT on freeing his loved ones, Hok for once had relaxed that stern sense of vigilance that every hunter and warrior must have and employ if he will prosper. The Fishers had returned from the diversion made by the sharks, had overheard Hok in the hut, and now they swarmed within the doorway and on the platform outside and around—warriors to the front, armed and fierce. In the fore of the throng stood Caggo, towering up to Hok’s height and extending almost as broad across the chest and shoulders. With one foot he kicked up the fire, making light for all to see. His right hand lifted an axe of obsidian, black and broad. Just behind him, with a spear similarly poised, scowled Djoma.

  “You did come, Hok,” said Djoma in a voice as bitter-cold as the drip from a crag of ice. “I thought you dead, slain by your own god. Well, it proves that your god is weaker even than I thought. I will do a better job than he.”

  Hok moved so that his body sheltered Oloana and Ptao. His grip tightened on the thong-bound hilt of Widow-maker.

  “The Shining One gave me this weapon,” he cried, and the declaration rang like a blow of the sword itself. “Widow-maker has drunk the blood of many Fishers. He will drink more, whenever you move to attack.”

  “Huh!” snorted Caggo. “I do not fear that shiny thing, which looks more like an icicle than any club or spear. You seek to frighten us by lies, Hok. I myself will cut you down, and that woman of yours will see that I am greater than you and worth having.”

  He dared to grin impudently at Oloana, who stood behind Hok, and Hok went mad.

  “A-hai!”

  Widow-maker sang in the air, and Caggo did not dodge quickly enough. The edge took him on the jowl. Away flew his shaggy dark head, like a flung clod. Only the grin remained—the grin and the double-pointed beard—for all the rest had been smitten cleanly from Caggo’s body by that terrible slash. And while all the Fishers stared in frozen horror, the grin seemed to relax and grow wry as if, even without a head, Caggo knew that oblivion had come upon him. The lifted axe sank down in the lifeless band, the knees bent and buckled, the decapitated body sank down and collapsed.

  Hok broke that stunned silence with a joyous yell of battle, and charged into the thick of the Fishers. Thrust, slash, hack—three of them were down in the space of as many breaths. The others shrank and scrambled away. Had they not been cramped inside the narrow door those nearest him might have pressed back and created a rout of the whole party. But the stout walls of mud and wicker hemmed them in with him, and they must fight. All around him they waved their weapons.

  “Do not kill!” thundered the voice of Djoma, who had himself retreated into a corner before Hok’s rush. “Take him alive—drag him down, bind him!”

  IT was easier said than done, but a horrified youth chanced to run blindly upon Hok’s point. Widow-maker wedged between two ribs, and before Hok could wrench the iron clear, the others rushed from all sides. They swarmed over Hok like ants. He stumbled and fell, then struggled up with a powerful effort, shaking himself free and striking in all directions. Oloana screamed a warning, but too late—Djoma, running up from behind, struck once with the clubbed haft of his spear. Hok felt a thick blackness swallow up his senses.

  He awoke to the impact of many water-drops—he was outside, and it was raining. Many voices murmured around him. Opening his eyes, he saw that dawn was coming among the clouds.

  “See, he wakens, he lives,” cackled a wrinkled old woman with cruel features. “I thought him dead, he lay still so long.”

  “Had he died I would have been sorry,” responded the voice of Djoma. “Look up, Hok. You are my captive. To show his favor, the Sea-Father sends rain. It is his sign, veiling the weak face of your Shining One.”

  The prisoner sat up. He was bound with many tight-drawn straps around legs, arms and body—straps of fish skin. The swarthy folk who had captured him had canoed him ashore from their water-girt village, and had laid him upon a great rock on the beach. Beside him was Oloana, also bound, and little Ptao. They had both been staring anxiously, and as Hok showed that he was alive and undamaged, they had the heart to smile. He smiled back, with an expression full of love and encouragement.

  Djoma did not like such evidence of cheer among his captives, for he cleared his throat snarlingly to attract their attention. The light rain flowed down his beard in silvery drops.

  “You killed my son, Hok,” he said coldly.

  “I meant to,” replied Hok, his muscles surging against his bonds. “If I were free, and had Widow-maker, I would kill you as well.”

  “But you are not free,” taunted Djoma. “As for the thing you call Widow-maker, it is here.” He held out the sword, still bloody from the death-blows Hok had dealt with it. As he spoke, lightning crackled across the sky, and thunder roared.

  “Ah,” said Hok, “your Sea-Father is not the only one who sends signs. There was a javelin of fire waved by the Shining One.”

  “But the rain drowned it at once,” flung back Djoma. “My god is far stronger than yours.”

  “Hear him, Shining One,” muttered Hok tensely. “Set me free, that I may drive his lies down his throat.”

  Djoma laughed at the prayer. “Your worship will do you no good, Hok. I have won.”

  Hok again strove to break the fish-skin cords. They creaked, but held. “Set me free,” he challenged, while the rain beat on his head and shoulders. “My bare hands against whatever weapons you choose—even against Widow-maker. We will see then who is the stronger. I dare you to do battle with me!”

  IT was a bold defiance, and had its effect upon the listening Fishers who stood grouped all around. They muttered together, perhaps hoping that the test would be made—a fight between chiefs was always well worth watching. But Djoma, whose theological arguments had been so good, had yet another answer ready.

  “You shall die without the chance to fight, Hok. Bound as you are, you shall be thrown from the platform of my village where the water is deepest and the sharks are thickest. What they leave of you will bait fish for us. But first,” and his black-bright eyes turned toward Ptao, “there is something you must watch.”

  Hok, too, gazed at Ptao through the downpour, and the fear he would not confess for himself could not be hid as he wondered how the boy was threatened. Djoma noted, and chuckled his triumph.

  “You struck down Caggo, my son. So, Hok, I will
strike down yours.”

  For a moment Hok thought that blackness would overwhelm him again. Mightily he strove to gain his feet, but they were bound at the ankles and would not gain a grip on the rock. A great crackling bolt of lightning quivered in the sky, and the rain fell more heavily and coldly. Djoma put forth his free hand, caught Ptao by the shoulder and jerked him erect upon the rock.

  “Djoma,” Hok choked out, “before all your folk I name you the blackest and lowest of cowards. To kill a boy, a little boy—and bound, at that!”

  “Do not speak to him, father,” came the steady young voice of Ptao. He gazed fearlessly up into the grinning hairy face of Djoma. “He is less than a snake with a poisoned fang. I am not afraid to die, for my fear would make him happy.”

  “That is a brave cub,” said a watching warrior, with honest admiration.

  “So shall he not be allowed to grow up,” snapped Djoma. “Look well, Hok. I shall kill him with your weapon, that killed Caggo.”

  Slowly, with full sense of the drama in the situation, the chief of the Fishers lifted the sword high in air, so that its point rose heavenward in the rain. Hok suddenly cried out, in deep agony of spirit, a last prayer:

  “Shining One! Save Ptao and strike down this enemy—let me win us free, and never again shall your weapon be used to stab or strike! I swear this, by the fire you gave my people in the long ago—”

  “Useless!” howled Djoma, with a wild ringing laugh. The sword quivered before falling.

  Thunder broke open the sky, and down jabbed one more bolt of lightning. The uplifted Widow-maker caught that lightning, glowed as with white heat.

  Djoma, his laugh of mockery all unfinished, whirled over and down like a dead leaf. On his face he lay without a tremor. A purple-black wale streaked his body, from the fork of his right hand that had held the stolen sword, down across his shoulder and back, to the heel of his right foot that had stood in a pool of water.