Worlds of Exile and Illusion: Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions

by Ursula K. Le Guin

  “Keep your hands down,” the man on his right said out of the shadows. “It’s more than programming, Argerd. No hypnotic block could stand up to penton that way.”

  The one on his left, slab-faced and quick-eyed, a big man, answered in a weak sibilant voice: “You can’t say that—what do we know about their tricks? Anyhow, how can you estimate his resistance—what is he? You, Falk, where is this place you came from, Zove’s House?”

  “East. I left . . .” The number would not come to mind. “Fourteen days ago, I think.”

  How did they know the name of his house, his name? He was getting his wits back now, and did not wonder very long. He had hunted deer with Metock using hypodermic darts, which could make even a scratch-wound a kill. The dart that had felled him, or a later injection when he was helpless, had been some drug which must relax both the learned control and the primitive unconscious block of the telepathic centers of the brain, leaving him open to paraverbal questioning. They had ransacked his mind. At the idea, his feeling of coldness and sickness increased, complicated by helpless outrage. Why this violation? Why did they assume he would lie to them before they even spoke to him?

  “Did you think I was a Shing?” he asked.

  The face of the man on his right, lean, long-haired, bearded, sprang suddenly into the lamplight, the lips drawn back, and his open hand struck Falk across the mouth, jolting his head back and blinding him a moment with the shock. His ears rang; he tasted blood. There was a second blow and a third. The man kept hissing many times over. “You do not say that name, don’t say it, you do not say it, you don’t say it—”

  Falk struggled helplessly to defend himself, to get free. The man on his left spoke sharply. Then there was silence for some while.

  “I meant no harm coming here,” Falk said at last, as steadily as he could through his anger, pain, and fear.

  “All right,” said the one on the left, Argerd, “go on and tell your little story. What did you mean in coming here?”

  “To ask for a night’s shelter. And ask if there’s any trail going west.”

  “Why are you going west?”

  “Why do you ask? I told you in mindspeech, where there’s no lying. You know my mind.”

  “You have a strange mind,” Argerd said in his weak voice. “And strange eyes. Nobody comes here for a night’s shelter or to ask the way or for anything else. Nobody comes here. When the servants of the Others come here, we kill them. We kill toolmen, and the speaking beasts, and Wanderers and pigs and vermin. We don’t obey the law that says it’s wrong to take life—do we, Drehnem?”

  The bearded one grinned, showing brownish teeth.

  “We are men,” Argerd said. “Men, free men, killers. What are you, with your half-mind and your owl’s eyes, and why shouldn’t we kill you? Are you a man?”

  In the brief span of his memory, Falk had not met directly with cruelty or hate. The few people he had known had been, if not fearless, not ruled by fear; they had been generous and familiar. Between these two men he knew he was defenseless as a child, and the knowledge both bewildered and enraged him.

  He sought some defense or evasion and found none. All he could do was speak the truth. “I don’t know what I am or where I came from. I’m going to try to find out.”

  “Going where?”

  He looked from Argerd to the other one, Drehnem. He knew they knew the answer, and that Drehnem would strike again if he said it.

  “Answer!” the bearded one muttered, half rising and leaning forward.

  “To Es Toch,” Falk said, and again Drehnem struck him across the face, and again he took the blow with the silent humiliation of a child punished by strangers.

  “This is no good; he’s not going to say anything different from what we got from him under penton. Let him up.”

  “Then what?” said Drehnem.

  “He came for a night’s shelter; he can have it. Get up!”

  The strap that held him into the chair was loosened. He got shakily onto his feet. When he saw the door and the black down-pitch of the stairs they forced him towards, he tried to resist and break free, but his muscles would not yet obey him. Drehnem arm-twisted him down into a crouch and pushed him through the doorway. The door slammed shut as he turned staggering to keep his footing on the stairs.

  It was dark, black dark. The door was as if sealed shut, no handle on this side, no mote or hint of light coming under it, no sound. Falk sat down on the top step and put his head down on his arms.

  Gradually the weakness of his body and the confusion in his mind wore off. He raised his head, straining to see. His night-vision was extraordinarily acute, a function, Ranya had long ago pointed out, of his large-pupiled, large-irised eyes. But only flecks and blurs of after-images tormented his eyes; he could see nothing, for there was no light. He stood up and step by step felt his slow way down the narrow, unseen descent.

  Twenty-one steps, two, three—level. Dirt. Falk went slowly forward, one hand extended, listening.

  Though the darkness was a kind of physical pressure, a constraint, deluding him constantly with the notion that if he only looked hard enough he would see, he had no fear of it in itself. Methodically, by pace and touch and hearing, he mapped out a part of the vast cellar he was in, the first room of a series which, to judge by echoes, seemed to go on indefinitely. He found his way directly back to the stairs, which because he had started from them were home base. He sat down, on the lowest step this time, and sat still. He was hungry and very thirsty. They had taken his pack, and left him nothing.

  It’s your own fault, Falk told himself bitterly, and a kind of dialogue began in his mind:

  What did I do? Why did they attack me?

  Zove told you: trust nobody. They trust nobody, and they’re right.

  Even someone who comes alone asking for help?

  With your face—your eyes? When it’s obvious even at a glance that you’re not a normal human being?

  All the same, they could have given me a drink of water, said the perhaps childish, still fearless part of his mind.

  You’re damned lucky they didn’t kill you at sight, his intellect replied, and got no further answer.

  All the people of Zove’s House had of course got accustomed to Falk’s looks, and guests were rare and circumspect, so that he had never been forced into particular awareness of his physical difference from the human norm. It had seemed so much less of a difference and barrier than the amnesia and ignorance that had isolated him so long. Now for the first time he realized that a stranger looking into his face would not see the face of a man.

  The one called Drehnem had been afraid of him, and had struck him because he was afraid and repelled by the alien, the monstrous, the inexplicable.

  It was only what Zove had tried to tell him when he had said with such grave and almost tender warning, “You must go alone, you can only go alone.”

  There was nothing for it, now, but sleep. He curled up as well as he could on the bottom step, for the dirt floor was damp, and closed his eyes on the darkness.

  Some time later in timelessness he was awakened by the mice. They ran about making a faint tiny scrabble, a zigzag scratch of sound across the black, whispering in very small voices very close to the ground, “It is wrong to take life it is wrong to take life hello heeellllooo don’t kill us don’t kill.”

  “I will!” Falk roared and all the mice were still.

  It was hard to go to sleep again; or perhaps what was hard was to be sure whether he was asleep or awake. He lay and wondered whether it was day or night; how long they would leave him here and if they meant to kill him, or use that drug again until his mind was destroyed, not merely violated; how long it took thirst to change from discomfort to torment; how one might go about catching mice in the dark without trap or bait; how long one could stay alive on a diet of raw mouse.

  Several times, to get a vacation from his thoughts, he went exploring again. He found a great up-ended vat or tun and his heart lea
ped with hope, but it rang hollow: splintered boards near the bottom scratched his hands as he groped around it. He could find no other stairs or doors in his blind explorations of the endless unseen walls.

  He lost his bearings finally and could not find the stairs again. He sat on the ground in the darkness and imagined rain falling, out in the forest of his lonely journeying, the gray light and the sound of rain. He spoke in his mind all he could remember of the Old Canon, beginning at the beginning:

  The way that can be gone

  is not the eternal Way.. . .

  His mouth was so dry after a while that he tried to lick the damp dirt floor for its coolness; but to the tongue it was dry dust. The mice scuttled up quite close to him sometimes, whispering.

  Far away down long corridors of darkness bolts clashed and metal clanged, a bright piercing clangor of light. Light—

  Vague shapes and shadows, vaultings, arches, vats, beams, openings, bulked and loomed into dim reality about him. He struggled to his feet and made his way, unsteady but running, towards the light.

  It came from a low doorway, through which, when he got close, he could see an upswell of ground, treetops, and the rosy sky of evening or morning, which dazzled his eyes like a midsummer noon. He stopped inside the door because of that dazzlement, and because a motionless figure stood just outside.

  “Come out,” said the weak, hoarse voice of the big man, Argerd.

  “Wait. I can’t see yet.”

  “Come out. And keep going. Don’t even turn your head, or I’ll burn it off your neck.”

  Falk came into the doorway, then hesitated again. His thoughts in the dark served some purpose now. If they did let him go, he had thought, it would mean that they were afraid to kill him.

  “Move!”

  He took the chance. “Not without my pack,” he said, his voice faint in his dry throat.

  “This is a laser.”

  “You might as well use it. I can’t get across the continent without my own gun.”

  Now it was Argerd who hesitated. At last, his voice going up almost into a shriek, he yelled to someone: “Gretten! Gretten! Bring the stranger’s stuff down here!”

  A long pause. Falk stood in the darkness just inside the door, Argerd, motionless, just outside it. A boy came running down the grassy slope visible from the door, tossed Falk’s pack down and disappeared.

  “Pick it up,” Argerd ordered; Falk came out into the light and obeyed. “Now get going.”

  “Wait,” Falk muttered, kneeling and looking hastily through the disarrayed, unstrapped pack. “Where’s my book?”

  “Book?”

  “The Old Canon. A handbook, not electronic—”

  “You think we’d let you leave here with that?”

  Falk stared. “Don’t you people recognize the Canons of Man when you see them? What did you take it for?”

  “You don’t know and won’t find out what we know, and if you don’t get going I’ll burn your hands off. Get up and go on, go straight on, get moving!” The shrieking note was in Argerd’s voice again, and Falk realized he had nearly driven him too far. As he saw the look of hate and fear in Argerd’s heavy, intelligent face the contagion of it caught him, and hastily he closed and shouldered his pack, walked past the big man and started up the grassy rise from the door of the cellars. The light was that of evening, a little past sunset. He walked towards it. A fine elastic strip of pure suspense seemed to connect the back of his head to the nose of the laser-pistol Argerd held, stretching out, stretching out as he walked on. Across a weedy lawn, across a bridge of loose planks over the river, up a path between the pastures and then between orchards. He reached the top of the ridge. There he glanced back for one moment, seeing the hidden valley as he had first seen it, full of a golden evening light, sweet and peaceful, high chimneys over the sky-reflecting river. He hastened on into the gloom of the forest, where it was already night.

  Thirsty and hungry, sore and downhearted, Falk saw his aimless journey through the Eastern Forest stretching on ahead of him with no vague hope, now, of a friendly hearth somewhere along the way to break the hard, wild monotony. He must not seek a road but avoid all roads, and hide from men and their dwelling-places like any wild beast. Only one thing cheered him up a bit, besides a creek to drink from and some travel-ration from his pack, and that was the thought that though he had brought his trouble on himself, he had not knuckled under. He had bluffed the moral boar and the brutal man on their own ground, and got away with it. That did hearten him; for he knew himself so little that all his acts were also acts of self-discovery, like those of a boy, and knowing that he lacked so much he was glad to learn that at least he was not without courage.

  After drinking and eating and drinking again he went on, in a broken moonlight that sufficed his eyes, till he had put a mile or so of broken country between himself and the house of Fear, as he thought of the place. Then, worn out, he lay down to sleep at the edge of a little glade, building no fire or shelter, lying gazing up at the moon-washed winter sky. Nothing broke the silence but now and again the soft query of a hunting owl. And this desolation seemed to him restful and blessed after the scurrying, voice-haunted, lightless prison-cellar of the house of Fear.

  As he pushed on westward through the trees and the days, he kept no more count of one than of the other. Time went on; and he went on.

  The book was not the only thing he had lost; they had kept Metock’s silver water-flask, and a little box, also of silver, of disinfectant salve. They could only have kept the book because they wanted it badly, or because they took it for some kind of code or mystery. There was a period when the loss of it weighed unreasonably on him, for it seemed to him it had been his one true link with the people he had loved and trusted, and once he told himself, sitting by his fire, that next day he would turn back and find the house of Fear again and get his book. But he went on, next day. He was able to go west, with compass and sun for guides, but could never have refound a certain place in the vastness of these endless hills and valleys of the forest. Not Argerd’s hidden valley; not the Clearing where Parth might be weaving in the winter sunlight, either. It was all behind him, lost.

  Maybe it was just as well that the book was gone. What would it have meant to him here, that shrewd and patient mysticism of a very ancient civilization, that quiet voice speaking from amidst forgotten wars and disasters? Mankind had outlived disaster; and he had outrun mankind. He was too far away, too much alone. He lived entirely now by hunting; that slowed his daily pace. Even when game is not gun-shy and is very plentiful, hunting is not a business one can hurry. Then one must clean and cook the game, and sit and suck the bones beside the fire, full-bellied for a while and drowsy in the winter cold; and build up a shelter of boughs and bark against the rain; and sleep; and next day go on. A book had no place here, not even that old Canon of Unaction. He would not have read it; he was ceasing, really, to think. He hunted and ate and walked and slept, silent in the forest silence, a gray shadow slipping westward through the cold wilderness.

  The weather was more and more often bleak. Often lean feral cats, beautiful little creatures with their pied or striped fur and green eyes, waited within sight of his campfire for the leavings of his meat, and came forward with sly, shy fierceness to carry off the bones he tossed them: their rodent prey was scarce now, hibernating through the cold. No beasts since the house of Fear had spoken to or bespoken him. The animals in the lovely, icy, lowland woods he was now crossing had never been tampered with, had never seen or scented man, perhaps. And as it fell farther and farther behind him he saw its strangeness more clearly, that house hidden in its peaceful valley, its very foundations alive with mice that squeaked in human speech, its people revealing a great knowledge, the truth-drug, and a barbaric ignorance. The Enemy had been there.

  That the Enemy had ever been here was doubtful. Nobody had ever been here. Nobody ever would be. Jays screamed in the gray branches. Frost-rimed brown leaves crackled underfoot, the le
aves of hundreds of autumns. A tall stag looked at Falk across a little meadow, motionless, questioning his right to be there.

  “I won’t shoot you. Bagged two hens this morning,” Falk said.

  The stag stared at him with the lordly self-possession of the speechless, and walked slowly off. Nothing feared Falk, here. Nothing spoke to him. He thought that in the end he might forget speech again and become as he had been, dumb, wild, unhuman. He had gone too far away from men and had come where the dumb creatures ruled and men had never come.

  At the meadow’s edge he stumbled over a stone, and on hands and knees read weatherworn letters carved in the half-buried block: CK O.

  Men had come here; had lived here. Under his feet, under the icy, hummocky terrain of leafless bush and naked tree, under the roots, there was a city. Only he had come to the city a millennium or two too late.

  3

  THE DAYS OF WHICH Falk kept no count had grown very short, and had perhaps already passed Year’s End, the winter solstice. Though the weather was not so bad as it might have been in the years when the city had stood aboveground, this being a warmer meteorological cycle, still it was mostly bleak and gray. Snow fell often, not so thickly as to make the going hard, but enough to make Falk know that if he had not had his wintercloth clothing and sleeping-bag from Zove’s House he would have suffered more than mere discomfort from the cold. The north wind blew so unwearyingly bitter that he tended always to be pushed a little southwards by it, picking the way south of west when there was a choice, rather than face into the wind.

  In the dark wretched afternoon of one day of sleet and rain he came slogging down a south-trending stream-valley, struggling through thick brambly undergrowth over rocky, muddy ground. All at once the brush thinned out, and he was brought to a sudden halt. Before him lay a great river, dully shining, peppered with rain. Rainy mist half obscured the low farther bank. He was awed by the breadth, the majesty of this great silent westward drive of dark water under the low sky. At first he thought it must be the Inland River, one of the few landmarks of the inner continent known by rumor to the eastern Forest Houses; but it was said to run south marking the western edge of the kingdom of the trees. Surely this was a tributary of the Inland River, then. He followed it, for that reason, and because it kept him out of the high hills and provided both water and good hunting; moreover it was pleasant to have, sometimes, a sandy shore for a path, with the open sky overhead instead of the everlasting leafless darkness of branches. So following the river he went west by south through a rolling land of woods, all cold and still and colorless in the grip of winter.