Now, as she moved the coffee-tasting chicloid around in her mouth, she wondered why she had suddenly, almost involuntarily, decided to try it again. What secret motive did she have? It had been almost an unconscious act. If she had not gotten into the habit of closely observing herself, she might not even have been aware of what she was doing.
Lightning flashed to the north. Then the rain fell as if dumped from a ballast bag. She put her head down under her hood and hunched her shoulders. Her bare feet were wet, but the cloth over her body repelled the drops.
She unlatched the door of her hut. Inside, she put down the bag, opened it, and removed the heavy metal lighter provided twice a year by her grail. She groped toward the table which held an alcohol lamp, a gift from Firebrass. The lightning came nearer, and by its increasing brightness, she could see the lamp.
Something touched her shoulder.
She screamed and whirled, dropping the lighter. Her right fist struck out. A hand gripped her right wrist. Her knee came up, aiming at the groin she hoped was in its path. It slid by a hip, and another hand caught her other wrist. She sagged, and the attacker was deceived. He chuckled and pulled her close. She could see him vaguely now as flashes of light dimly illumined the interior of the hut. His nose was in front of her and close, though below her, since he was short.
She bent her head swiftly, bit down on the end of the nose, and jerked her head savagely. The man screamed and released her. He staggered backward holding his nose. She followed him, and this time her foot shot up between his legs. Though she had no shoes, her hard-driven toes sent him writhing to the ground, clutching his genitals.
Jill came up and leaped up and down, landing on his side. His ribs snapped loudly. Stepping off him, she bent down and grabbed both ears. He tried to reach up then, but she yanked outward. The ears came loose with a ripping sound.
The man, ignoring his injured genitals and broken ribs, came up off the floor. Jill caught the side of his neck with the edge of her palm. He fell, and she went to the table and lit the lamp with a lighter in a shaking hand. The wick took hold, and then the flame brightened as she turned the knob on the side of the lamp. After trimming it, she turned, and she yelled again.
He had risen and had seized a spear from its wall brackets and was thrusting it at her.
The lamp flew from her hand in unthinking but deadly reaction. It struck him in the face, shattered, and the alcohol spilled out.
Flames exploded. He screamed and ran blindly – his eyes were on fire – toward her. She screamed. Only now did she recognize him.
She shrieked, "Jack!'' and then he was on her, had wrapped his burning arms around her, knocked her upon her back, the breath coming out of her in a whoof. Unable to breathe for a moment, but in a frenzy to escape his fiery arms, she tore herself loose and rolled away. Her fireproof clothing had kept her from being burned.
Before she could get up, however, he had grabbed her garment hem and yanked on it. The magnetic tabs separated. Naked, she leaped to her feet and ran for the spear, lying where he had dropped it. She bent down to get it and Jack was on her from behind, blazing hands grabbing her breasts, his blazing erection driving into her. Their screams bounced around the walls of the hut, seeming to mount in intensity with each echo. She was being fried, seared, inside her, on her buttocks, on her breasts, and in her ears – as if the echoes were flames, too. She could only roll over and over until brought up short against the wall.
Jack was on his hands and knees now, his hair burned off, his scalp black, crinkled, and ridged, his skin broken open to reveal reddish-black blood and grey-black bone. The only illumination was the fire still consuming his face and chest and belly and the penis – which was swollen as if with the passion of hate – and the lightning cracking into the earth outside.
She was up and running toward the door to get to the outside, where the blessed rain would put out the fire and soothe her external burns. Somehow, he grabbed hold of her ankle. She fell heavily, knocking her breath out again. Jack was on top of her again, muttering strange croaking sounds – his tongue was burned, too? – and both were enfolded in fire.
She slid down a scream of pure agony toward a hole far below, a hole which expanded swiftly and received her as she fell toward the center of this world and toward the heart of all things.
Chapter 17
* * *
Jack's face was hanging above her. It was unconnected to a body, floating freely like a balloon. The curly reddish hair, the broad handsome face, the bright blue eyes, the strong chin, the full lips, smiling . . .
"Jack!" she murmured, and then the face dissolved and became another, attached to a body.
The face was broad and handsome, the cheekbones high, the eyes black, slanted by epicanthic folds, the hair straight and black.
"Piscator!"
"I heard you screaming.'' He leaned down and took her hands. "Can you get up?"
"I think so," she said shakily. She came up easily enough with his help. She became aware that the thunder and lightning had ceased. Nor was it raining, though water was still dripping from the eaves. The door was open, showing only darkness. The clouds had not yet disappeared. No, there was the silhouette of a hill suddenly rising. Beyond was a break in the skycover and the white flare of a great gas sheet in which thousands of giant stars were embedded,
She also became aware that she was naked. She looked down and saw her breasts were reddened, as if they had been too near a fire. The red slowly faded away as she watched.
Piscator said, "I thought you had been slightly burned. Your breasts and your pubic area were inflamed, swollen, reddened. But there was no evidence of a fire."
"The fire was from within, inside me," she said. "Dreamgum."
His eyebrows arose. He said, "Ah, so!"
She laughed.
He helped her to the cot, and she lay down on it with a sigh. The slight warmth inside her vagina had subsided now. Piscator busied himself, placing towels over her, getting her a drink of rainwater from the bamboo barrel placed outside the door. She drank the water, holding the cup with one hand, leaning on the elbow of the other arm.
"Thanks," she said. "I should have known better than to chew the gum. I was depressed, and when I'm in that kind of a mood, I get strange effects from it. It all seemed so real, so horrible. I never questioned its reality, though it was clearly impossible."
He said, "The Second Chancers use dreamgum in their therapy, but it's done under supervision. It seems to have some beneficial results. But we do not use it except in the initial stages of education with some people."
"We?"
"Al Ahl al-Hagg, the followers of the Real. What you Occidentals call Sufis."
"I thought so."
"You should, since we have had this conversation once before.''
She gasped and said, "When was that?"
"This morning."
"It must be the gum,'' she said. "I'm through with it. No more of this bloody stuff."
She sat up and said, "You won't tell Firebrass about this, will you?"
He was no longer smiling. "You are experiencing some very strong psychic disturbances. To cause burns, stigmata, on your body through mental means . . . well . . ."
"I won't be using the gum anymore. I'm not just making an empty promise you know. I'm not addicted. I am mentally stable.''
"You're deeply troubled," he said. "Be honest with me, Jill. I may call you Jill, may I not? Have you had attacks similar to this? If so, how many and how serious were they? That is, how long did they last? How long did it take you to recover from them?"
"Not one recent attack, as you call it," she said.
"Very well. I will say nothing to anyone. That is, if there is no recurrence. You will be honest with me and inform me if you do suffer from any, won't you? You would not endanger your ship just because you want so desperately to be a member of the crew?"
"No, I would not," she said. But the words came hard.
"Then we'll le
t it stand at that, for the time being."
She rose on one elbow again, ignoring the slipping aside of the towel and the baring of her breast:
"Look, Piscator. Be honest. If you are given a rank inferior to mine, and it's likely, if Firebrass awards ranks according to experience, would you resent serving under me?"
"Not in the slightest," he said, smiling.
She lay back and pulled the towel up. "You come from a culture which held women in a very inferior position. Your women were practically on a level with the beasts of burden. They . . ."
"That is in the past, the long dead and faraway past," he said. "Nor was nor am I a typical male, Nipponese or not. You must avoid stereotyping. After all, that is what you hate, what you have fought all your life, have you not? Stereotyping?"
"You're right," she said. "But it's a conditioned reflex."
"I believe I said this once before to you. However, repetition has its uses in education. You should learn to think in a different pattern."
"And how do I do that?"
He hesitated, then said, "You will know when to attempt that. And whom to see about it."
Jill knew that he was waiting for her to ask him to accept her as his disciple. She was having none of that. She just did not believe in organized religion. Though Sufism was not a religion, its members were religious. There was no such thing as an atheist Sufi.
She was an atheist. Despite having been resurrected, she did not believe in a Creator. At least, she did not believe in a Creator who was personally interested in her or in any creature whatsoever. People who did believe in a deity who considered human beings as His children – and why was a spirit always he? – why not be logical since God had no sex, an it? – people who believed in Him were deluded. The believers in God might be intelligent, but they were mentally benighted. The gears in that part of the brain which dealt with religion had been put into neutral, and they were spinning. Or the circuit of religion had been disconnected from the main circuit of the intellect.
That was a bad analogy. People used their intellect to justify the nonintellective, emotionally based phenomenon called religion. Often brilliantly. But, as far as she was concerned, uselessly.
Piscator said, "You are going to sleep. Good. If you need me, though, feel free to call on me."
"You're no physician," she said. "Why should you . . ."
"You have potential. And though you sometimes act foolishly, you are no fool. Though you have fooled yourself from time to time and still are. Good night."
"Good night."
He bowed quickly and walked out, closing the door behind him. She started to call out, but she stopped. She had wanted to ask him what he was doing near the hut when he had heard her. It was too late. Nor was it important. Still . . . what had he been doing here? Had he intended to seduce her? Rape was out of the question, of course. She was bigger than he, and though he probably was a master of the martial arts, so was she. Moreover, his position as an airship officer would be seriously jeopardized if she were to accuse him.
No, he would not have been here either to seduce or to rape. He did not give the impression that he was that type of man. On the other hand, no matter how nice they acted, weren't they all? No, there was something about him – she hated to use the imprecise and unscientifically founded term vibrations – but there it was. He did not radiate that length of frequency classified as "bad vibes."
It was then she realized that he had not asked her to describe her experience. If he had been curious, he had managed not to show it. Perhaps he had felt that she would have volunteered if she had wanted to share the details with him. He was a very sensitive man, very perceptive.
What did that horrifying attack by Jack mean? That she was afraid of him, of men in general? Of the male sex? Of sex itself when in male form? She could not believe that. But the illusion? delusion? visitation? had revealed certain feelings of hate and destruction. Not just for men in general and for Jack in particular. She had set him afire but she had also burned and raped herself – in a sense. Which made no sense. She certainly did not subconsciously wish to be raped. Only a mentally sick woman would desire that.
Did she hate herself? The answer was, yes, at times. But who didn't?
Some time later, she sank into an uneasy sleep. Once, she dreamed of Cyrano de Bergerac. They were fencing with epées. The circling point of his blade dazzled her, and then her weapon was knocked up and his leaped in and its point sank deep into her navel. She looked down in surprise at the blade as it withdrew, but the navel did not spout blood. Instead, it swelled and thickened and then a tiny dagger issued from the tumor.
Chapter 18
* * *
The shock of cold water fully awoke Burton. For a minute, he was completely beneath the surface, and he did not know which way was up in the darkness.
There was only one way to find out. After five strokes, he felt the pressure on his eardrums increasing. Reversing position, he swam in what he hoped was the opposite direction. For all he knew, he was moving horizontally. But the pressure eased, and just as he feared he could not possibly hold his breath anymore, he broke the surface.
At the same time, something rammed into the back of his head, knocking him half-senseless again. His flailing hand hit an object and he grabbed it. Though he could see nothing in the mists, he could feel the thing that was holding him up. A massive log.
Bedlam was around him, screams, shouts, someone nearby calling for help. He released his hold as soon as he had regained all his senses and swam toward the woman crying for aid. As he neared her, he realized that it was Loghu's voice. A few strokes brought him to her, close enough to see her face dimly.
"Take it easy," he said. "It's me, Dick!"
Loghu seized him by the shoulders, and they both went down. He fought her, pushed her away, then grabbed her from behind.
Loghu said something in her native Tokharian. He answered her in the same tongue.
"Don't panic. We'll be all right."
Loghu, gasping, said, "I've got hold of something. I won't sink."
He released her and reached around her. Another log. The collision must have torn some of the forward logs loose. But where was the boat and where was the raft? And where were Loghu and he?
It seemed probable that they had fallen into the gap made when the lashings of the logs of the raft had been torn loose. But the current would by now surely have carried the intact part against the rock, crushing everything between it and the rock. Had they been carried around the corner of the spire and were now drifting with the current?
If so, they were in a tangle of logs and pieces from the boat. They kept bumping against him and Loghu.
She moaned and said, "I think my leg's broken, Dick. It hurts so."
The log to which they were clinging was very thick and long, its ends so distant they could not be seen through the fog. They had to dig into the rough bark with their fingers. It would not be long before they would lose their grip.
Suddenly Monat's voice tore through the greyness.
"Dick! Loghu! Are you out there?"
Burton shouted, and a moment later something rapped along the log. It struck his fingers, causing him to yell with pain and to slip back into the water. He struggled back up, and then the end of a pole shot like a striking snake in ambush from the fog. It grazed his left cheek. A little to the right and it would have stunned him, perhaps broken his skull.
He seized it and called out that he was to be pulled in.
"Loghu's here, too," he said. "Be careful with that pole!"
He was dragged in by Monat to the edge of the raft where Kazz pulled him out with a single heave. Monat then stuck the pole into the darkness. A minute later, Loghu was drawn in. She was half-unconscious.
"Get some cloths and wrap her up in them. Keep her warm," he told Kazz.
"Will do, Burton-naq," the Neanderthal said. He turned and was enfolded in the mist.
Burton sat down on the wet, smooth sur
face of the raft. "Where are the others? Is Alice all right?"
"They're all here except Owenone," Monat said. "Alice seems to have some broken ribs. Frigate hurt his knee. As for the boat, it's gone."
Before he could recover from this shock, he saw torches flaring. They drew nearer, casting light enough for him to see their bearers. There were a dozen of them, short, dark-faced Caucasians with large, hooked noses, clad from head to foot in cloths of many stripes and colors. Their only arms were flint knives, all sheathed.
One of them spoke in a language which Burton thought was Semitic. If so, it was an ancient form of that family. He could understand a few words here and there, though. He replied in Esperanto, and the speaker switched to that.
There followed a swift dialog. Apparently, the man on the tower had fallen asleep because he had been drinking. He had survived the fall from the tower when the raft had crashed, into the island and toppled him and the man whom Burton had seen climb up to him.
The second man had not been so lucky. He had died of a broken neck. As for the luck of the pilot, it had run out on him. He had been thrown overboard by his enraged fellows.
The great grinding noises Burton had heard before the boat struck came from the collision of the tip of the V-shaped prow with the docks and then the hard rock of the beach. This had crumpled the front half of the V and torn loose many of the fish-leather lashings. The V had also, absorbed much of the shock, preventing more of the raft from being ripped apart.
A section of the northwest side had been ripped off, but it was forced on by the main body. It was this jumble of massive logs which had rammed into the Hadji II, crushing the lower half of the back part. After the torn-off front half of the boat had fallen into the water, the back half, knocked apart by the great blow, had fallen down from – and through – the log jam.
R.W. III - The Dark Design Page 11