Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  “Oh, the guards,” she said airily. “Don’t bother about the guards. I can always get past them. They’d do anything for me—there’s hardly a woman in the place. I don’t think you quite realize the power a woman has in this sort of situation, Drove.”

  “Please don’t talk like that, Ribbon.”

  “They say they can hide me in their quarters and nobody would ever know I was there. After all, you’d like me to be inside there with you, hey, Drove? You once told me you thought I was pretty, and I could be very nice to you, you know. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You always did want to make love to me, didn’t you, Drove?” She smiled horribly; it was like a nightmare.

  “Ribbon, I can’t stand hearing this. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” I began to walk away. I wanted to be sick.

  Her voice grew harsh and strident. “You stinking freezer, You’re a Parl just like the rest of them! Well, I tell you this, Alika-Drove. I want to live and I have as much right to live as you and if I have to abase myself to stay alive then by Rax I’ll do it!” She laughed, a cackle like an old crone. “You don’t think I wanted to sleep with you, surely? Rax, the very thought disgusts me; you men, you’re all the same, filthy beasts. Beasts! And your ego! What in the world made you think I wanted you, I’ll never know!”

  I had to say it, for the sake of the past, for the sake of truth. I walked back to her and said, “Ribbon, I never said you wanted me. For a long time I wanted you, because I always loved you, just a little. I’d like things to stay like that.”

  For just a moment her eyes softened and the old Ribbon looked out through them; but instantly the ice-devil was back, twisting her thoughts. “Love?” she shrilled. “You don’t know what love is and neither does that little prig Browneyes. Love doesn’t exist—we were just kidding ourselves. The only real thing is this!” She waved her arm extravagantly, indicating the cannery, the fence, and the drifting, settling snow.

  There was only one way out and I took it. I walked away quickly, leaving her screaming at the wire. Her words had struck at my very existence and when I crept back into the little shack by the fence, I was almost surprised to see my Browneyes there on the other side, loving me, showing me that love still existed, assuring me that it would always exist.

  CHAPTER 20

  Days went by. The snow dwindled to a sprinkle and eventually stopped. The sky cleared and the stars reappeared at night, hard and glittering coldly. The sun Phu was small, smaller than I’d ever seen it before and hardly able to warm the frosty air even at noon, although still providing light enough to distinguish day from night. I wondered just how bright the days would be when our world was firmly in the clutches of Rax—not that I would ever be able to see those days, since the entrances to the complex would long since have been sealed to keep the warmth in, down below. I would have asked Thrawn, but I hadn’t seen him for a long time; and my father’s knowledge of astronomy was slight.

  With the cessation of the snow and the clearing of the air it was now possible to see as far as the Yellow Mountains again—although they were now white, and would remain so for forty years. Nearby, the obo trees on Finger Point had become visible as silver pyramids against the pale blue of the sky. Anemone trees stood motionless among them. It was a desolate landscape; the only signs of life were a few Jorin who could occasionally be seen moving dark against the snow of the escarpment where their deep burrows were—and the pathetic remnants of humanity camped outside the wire.

  One day the canvas entrance to my rough hut was pulled aside and my father entered, bent double. He squatted beside me and glanced at Browneyes on the other side of the fence. Between us, the heater murmured comfortingly. “What do you want?” I asked sharply. Our shack was a private place, something between Browneyes and me, and father’s presence was a desecration.

  “The heater will have to go,” he said briefly.

  “Get frozen, father!”

  “I’m sorry, Drove. I did my best for you. I even came myself instead of letting the guards take it. But there’s talk in the complex; they say it’s burning fuel uneconomically when we need it below. Some people were saying it was favouritism, your being allowed to use it out here. I’m afraid I’ll have to take it. Build a fire, son.”

  “How can I build a fire inside a hut, you fool?”

  “That sort of talk will get you nowhere, Drove.” He seized the heater but released it instantly with a curse, licking his burned fingers. “By Phu!” he shouted, enraged and blaming me. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head I’ll have the guards raze this hovel to the ground!” He stormed out, and shortly afterwards the guards came.

  Browneyes and I built a large fire against the wire and met in the open from then on, but it wasn’t the same. We were in full view of everyone and, worse, the fire attracted people. Understandably enough they would huddle around it but this made things difficult for Browneyes and me, as we were unable to converse freely any more. They would have thought us crazy, some of the things we’d been saying to each other.

  Meanwhile the situation among the Campers was worsening. Every morning there were fewer people around than the previous day; every night someone would awake chilled from their fitful sleep, and panic, and jump up and start running, and running…The deep snow beyond the trampled area of the encampment was dotted with the trails of those for whom the effort of sustaining life in this dreadful cold had proved too much. Worse, many of the trails terminated in a visible inert heap, a constant reminder to the remaining Campers that they would all go that way, sooner or later.

  Strongarm stayed, fighting off the cold by strength of will, as did his wife, Una. Browneyes’ father died quickly, not long after his irrational outburst at the wire; I was sorry to see him go, and Browneyes was inconsolable for several days. Ribbon died in her bed after a day of coughing and chest pains, and Browneyes cried over her too, but I could feel little pain. I’d lost Ribbon many days before, where the fence met the river…

  I felt guilty when I walked into the compound every morning after a warm night’s sleep in a comfortable bed, to meet the sad wrecks beyond the wire. Often I would smuggle food to them, and an occasional small bottle of distil—for drinking; the stuff was much too precious to waste as fuel. Nevertheless, no matter what I did, I felt obscurely that I was in the wrong, and their reproachful eyes as they accepted the gifts from my warm hands reinforced this feeling. They needed me for what I brought them, yet they hated me for what I was.

  Except Strongarm and Browneyes. Strongarm was the leader of the Campers and his huge form was everywhere, digging for fuel, rebuilding tents and shacks, chasing after runners and bringing them back slung over his shoulder, pummelling them and shouting reason into their numbed brains until their eyes cleared and they lived again.

  And Browneyes…She never gave up; I don’t think she would have started running even if an ice-devil had reached for her legs. She remained calm and beautiful, a little thinner but not too much, a small fur-clad bundle of sanity in all the madness around. Whenever I left the complex and made for the fence I would see her working; then she would look up and see me, and run towards me with a little cry of welcome, to be brought up short by the wire and stand there with arms spread, smiling love at me the way she always did.

  The thought that this would end, that one morning she would inevitably be gone, gave me nightmares; and each morning as I opened the door to an even colder day, the dread within my chest would amount to physical pain which only abated when I saw her small figure run to the wire to meet me.

  And at last it happened. One morning she was gone, Strong-arm was gone, they were all gone. I ran to the fence, my eyes frantically searching the abandoned tents and shacks, the still-smouldering fires, the multitude of tracks in the snow; but there was nobody there. I looked around for a note, thinking, maybe, they’ve all gone looking for fuel—but there was no word; there was nothing.

  They never came back.

  “They�
��ve gone back to Pallahaxi, of course,” my father said. “They should never have left there in the first place. Why, with careful rationing they could last another year there, maybe two.”

  Mother smiled and I knew they were both relieved that my unfortunate ‘phase’, as they put it, was over. “There are a lot of really nice people on our level, Drove, you’ve never had the chance to meet them. Of course, your father’s never said anything—but it’s been very awkward for us, your hanging around with the general public all the time. We’re so glad to have you back, dear.”

  Two days later I found a girl in our rooms, about my own age and drinking cocha juice with my mother. Instantly I mistrusted the situation and my suspicions proved justified when mother left the room. “I must slip out for a moment, Drove,” she said brightly. “You can look after Yelda while I’m away, I’m sure.”

  She left me staring furiously at the wretched girl who was smiling vapidly into her cocha. Facially she was reminiscent of Wolff; the resemblance did not end there, as I noticed she had no breasts. As if this were not enough, I’ve always detested the name Yelda since a traumatic love affair at the age of six.

  The girl exposed her teeth. “What a nice person your mother is.”

  At least she was not scared to tackle a controversial topic. “I have a suspicion that my mother is insane,” I said.

  “She and I have so much in common,” continued Yelda, ignoring me—or then again, maybe not. “We’re both so fond of cooking and dressmaking and other things; do you know, I hardly noticed that she’s so much older than I? She acts so young. She really does.”

  “To the point of childishness.”

  “Would you like a cup of cocha juice, Drove?”

  “I detest the stuff, thanks. Only fools and women drink cocha juice.”

  “My, aren’t you the rude one?” Yelda suddenly went on the offensive and I slumped back, beaten already. I was too sick and tired to fight. “You know, I didn’t have to come here. I can leave right now, if I want to, Drove. I can tell you don’t like me—I’m very quick at sizing people up. You resented me from the moment you saw me. Why?” She stared at me in toothy hostility.

  “Yelda,” I said with difficulty, “I’m sorry. I was trying to needle you because I felt low. And it just so happens that I don’t like my mother and I don’t like cocha juice, so you picked two unfortunate subjects. let’s try again, shall we?”

  She was already standing, ready to leave, but now she hesitated. “Well…Well, all right then. All right, if you promise to be nice. I wasn’t sure about even coming here, you know, because of what everybody’s been saying about you and some girl. Anyway…Do you play Circlets? I noticed a Circlets board in the corner. I’m very good at Circlets. I can always beat my brother.”

  I seemed to have stepped back into the past. My breastless playmate was smiling happily again as she set up the counters, and soon she would start picking her nose or having to go to the washroom.

  So we played Circlets and I don’t know whether I enjoyed it or not, but there were short periods when I didn’t think of Browneyes so it passed the time away, and there was going to be plenty of time to pass away.

  We talked about the children on our level and Yelda seemed to know them all; a lot of them she liked but others were just hateful, and kept pulling her hair. “But I like you, Drove,” she said. “Boys are usually so rough and smelly, but you’re nice. I hope you’ll let me come and play with you again…”

  I was still staring incredulously into space when my mother arrived back. “Where’s Yelda?” she asked immediately. “I hope you weren’t rude to her, Drove.”

  “She’s in the washroom.”

  “Oh, good. She seems such a nice girl, don’t you think? Wholesome and unspoilt. Very much the sort of person your father and I would like you to associate with.”

  “Look, mother, are you really serious? I mean, are you really thinking about what you’re saying? Don’t you know who I am?”

  She smiled indulgently. “Of course, dear. And it’s very nice to have you back with us. Your father and I have missed you—but then we’ve been very busy, this last two hundred days. Imagine that—it’s only two hundred days since we left Alika. How time flies…I expect you miss your pet drivets, dear.”

  And she actually had me remembering, with self-recrimination, that I’d left the drivets under the seat of the motorcart ever since smuggling them out of the house at Alika. They’d probably died by the second day of the journey; it’s a wonder we hadn’t smelled them.

  I wondered if it would be possible to play it her way, to recapture some sort of eternal childhood for her benefit, capering before her like a jester until my hair turned grey and my teeth fell out and she began to think maybe I was a little too old for short pants.

  Later that evening my father arrived back at the rooms in some excitement after a multi-level meeting attended, so he said in awed tones, by the Regent. It seemed we were all going to have our names changed.

  “Place of birth means nothing now,” he said. “And the Members feel that the time has come to make a new start. We’re all in this together, they said—so where a man comes from has no significance any more.”

  “That’s right, Burt,” said mother. “Although I always felt we were in some way… distinguished, coming from the capital, you know.”

  “We are not the only people ever to come out of Alika, Fayette,” chuckled father in fine good humour. “And Alika itself is just a name now, a meaningless jumble of abandoned ruins.”

  I spoke carefully, feeling too tired to incur his wrath. “So what are we calling ourselves now, father?”

  “Our new prefixes will be based on the level on which we live, so that it will be possible to identify a person completely when he introduces himself. Much better; much more polite this way, I feel. Under the old system it was so easy to make a mistake as to a person’s standing. So now, after the Regent, his entourage will all bear the prefix ‘Secondly’. The Members will be ‘Thirdly’—our good friend Thrawn will be known as Thirdly-Thrawn rather than ZeldonThrawn. I hope you will remember that, Drove. Or should I say—” and here he laughed outright “—Fourthly-Drove?”

  That night as I lay in bed I found I was repeating it to myself, over and over until it became one of those obsessions which forbid sleep: Fourthly-Drove, Fourthly-Drove, Fourthly-Drove…

  I awoke with a slight headache and a feeling of lassitude; and I found that I was wondering about the troops and guards, and whether they were to be known as Fifthly. My father hadn’t mentioned them last night. I dressed warmly, thinking I might have a look outside; it was some time since I had been out in the cold, and the fresh air would probably make me feel better. It had been a night of strange dreams and flickering images; the room had been cold and many times I had awoken, thinking Aunt Zu was standing over me.

  I climbed the stairs and paused before a yellow door. I tried the handle but it was locked. Listening, I could not hear the usual murmur of conversation from the troops’ billets. I was aware of a feeling of unease and hurried back down the steps to meet my father striding along the corridor. “Drove!” he called, on seeing me. “Have you been fooling around with the doors?”

  “Not me. I’ve only just got up.”

  “Strange thing…Strange thing…” he murmured almost to himself. “I could have sworn Thrawn asked me to see him this morning, but the door’s locked. All the green doors are locked. I can’t get through to the Members; it’s most inconvenient. We have important business to discuss.” He shivered suddenly. “Cold, isn’t it. I must check the heating.”

  “The troops’ doors are locked too,” I said.

  He looked discomfited. “Are they? Are they? Yes, there was something said at the meeting about that. In the interests of fuel economy it’s better if we don’t have too much coming and going between levels…Perhaps someone misunderstood the resolution at the meeting. It was only the yellow doors we were
talking about. Yes, that must be it.” He hurried away, muttering.

  I climbed the stairs; despite my wrapping of furs I shivered at a vision of Aunt Zu I had caught from my father’s worried face. The memory of that terrible evening in Alika was now firmly back in my mind—and with it, something else: a question. Something to do with the meaning of fear, the meaning of legends.

  The wind was strong as I shut the door behind me and stood looking at the snow and the fence. I noticed that the gate swung open, clanging with the wind. There was nobody to keep out, now. I wondered about the Great Lox.

  How could a legend be so close to the truth? Who was the man who first dreamed up the notion of the Great Lox Phu dragging the world from the tentacles of the ice-devil Rax?

  And then suggested that one day the process might be reversed?

  Surely, it could only be a man who had lived through the previous ordeal. And how had he survived, with no technology at his disposal? He couldn’t have had a technology, otherwise it would have left traces—after all, the Great Freeze only lasted forty years.

  I caught myself walking fast as the cold prodded at my mind with icy fingertips—and for the first time I wondered why I was scared of the cold. I had been told that it was an instinct. As pain warns a man against the dangers of injury, so fear warns him against freezing. But why fear? Wasn’t the cold itself enough warning?

  Unless it was a race memory, inherited from the minds of those people who had survived the terrors of the last Great Freeze…

  So then I knew I had beaten them at last, and I laughed aloud as I stood in the blinding, slashing cold. They wouldn’t survive; they were too clumsy, too selfish to survive down in their artificial burrow. And even if by some miracle they did, when the sun again shone on their faces they would be old, horribly old as they crawled to the surface and wept their relief. And even their children would have lost their childhood, and would never have sailed a boat, or watched a cloud, or ridden the grume. They were the losers.