by Earl
ATHO never completed the kiss.
His quick ears caught the pad of slinking feet. He swung the girl behind him, darting his eyes into the black shadows of a thicket nearby. Two red, ferocious eyes pierced back. And then silently, sharp teeth gleaming, a ferret sprang forth at the two lone figures. A tiny beast to normal humans, but to the Little Folk it represented a monster, nearly twice as large as they.
There was no chance to call for help from the others. Atho cursed himself for having slipped so far from the glade, where the killer would never have dared come. For the Little Folk, in numbers, were no easy prey, as the wild forest hunters well knew.
Atho had instinctively reached back of his shoulder for his slung spear, then remembered he had left his weapons beside the pile of trinkets, in the glade. He was unarmed! In flashing thought, he realized there was only one thing to do.
First, with a quick shove, he pushed Elva behind the toadstool, where she would be safe from any direct onslaught.
“Don’t move!” he warned her.
She nodded in understanding. The Little People did not lose their heads in danger, they who knew of it every day of their lives. But she managed to encourage with her eyes.
All this had taken but a second. The Little Folk, a dozen times smaller than the Big Ones, were also a dozen times quicker, by the compensations of not-unkind nature. As quick, in fact, as any comparably-sized creatures of the forest.
The deadly ferret had scuttled half-way across the intervening space. Atho did not wait. He charged forward himself, and from his throat issued a challenging cry:
“Eyooo! One of us will taste blood, my friend! Eyoooo!”
Then he had no more breath to waste. His little feet pattered over moss, and his body tensed forward in a running crouch. The ferret loomed horse-size, beady eyes glittering. Its head snapped to crunch its victim, as they almost met.
But its intended victim twisted aside at the last split-second. Otho’s very maneuver of rushing forward disconcerted the plunge of the ferret, who usually caught a creature running away, or half paralyzed in fright.
Atho grinned as he side-stepped, with a quickness that was almost a blur of motion. The Little Folk had one great advantage over their natural enemies—intelligence. Atho would use that factor.
The ferret turned, quick as a snake. For a moment it hesitated, eyeing the still, crouching form of Elva and debating whether that might not be the quicker possibility.
Atho saw, and dashed forward again, forcing the ferret to choose him. It darted forward. Atho dug his heels into the moss, stopped short, and slipped sideways again. The ferret’s teeth scraped his thigh. When it turned, Atho was dancing a foot away, tauntingly. Three more times the ferret charged, in as many seconds. Atho was always beyond its nose.
Atho was breathing easily despite his exertions, but realized the game could not continue forever. One crunch of those ruthless teeth and he would be badly wounded. At the next charge of the beast, Atho waited till the last instant and then leaped straight up. His body twisted in mid-air.
When he came down, he was straddling the furry back of the ferret.
Elva, trembling and moaning behind the toadstool, gave him up for lost. Never before had this been heard of, leaping on the back of a killer-beast. Atho would be tossed off, thrown to the ground, and would be lying at the mercy of those formidable jaws. Almost, Elva darted out, to at least die with the young warrior.
Then she saw an amazing thing.
Atho’s plan was instinctive. He wrapped his leg around the ferret’s neck, hanging tight so that its furious hunching did not shake him loose. Then, when the head turned on its supple neck to snap at his legs, Atho’s hands darted forth. He grasped the snout in one hand, the lower jaw in the other. The muscles of his shoulders and arms became whipcord, as he pried apart.
In proportion to his size, Atho was far stronger than any six-foot man, by another rule of fair-minded nature. He wrenched the jaws apart with his powerful little arms. The ferret screamed in agony. And there was a sharp snap.
Atho leaped off and kicked the beast in the side. It slunk away, with its lower jaw hanging limp and broken. Panting and laughing both, Atho strode back toward Elva.
“Eyoo!” he cried. “That beast will think twice again before attacking the Little Folk!”
Elva had arisen and threw herself in his arms.
“You are”—she sought a word—“wonderful! You fought for me, Atho?”
“For you!” he agreed, bending his head.
But again their kiss was interrupted. Koro stepped from behind a fern stem, a spear balanced lightly in his hand.
“I heard the commotion and came running, with this spear,” he stated. “Were you attacked? Where—” He looked about, as though for an enemy.”
Atho stared coldly. “For one who came running, your breath is remarkably quiet. Were you perhaps waiting behind that fern, to use your spear after I had been killed?”
“Koro!” Elva’s voice was shocked. “Were you eavesdropping all the time we were here?”
Koro shrugged off the accusations. “Come, why quarrel on Festival Eve? Let us join the others.”
Atho conquered rage at Koro’s planned interference. Atho was satisfied. His courtship of Elva had passed into a more intimate phase, what with the bringing of the gold watch and the battle for her protection. No need now to hurry their relationship, despite Koro and his methods.
They joined the frolic in the glade. To the tinkling of gold-spun cymbals and the fluting of snail-shell horns, they danced. And never had Atho’s limbs felt so light, or Elva swayed so bewitchingly, as they gazed in each other’s eyes.
CHAPTER III
Atho’s Sentence
A CLARION horn sounded suddenly, loud and clear, and the dancing stopped. It was the ceremony signal.
Now, from all the surrounding region for a mile, the Little Folk emerged from their homes. The older ones, and children, and mothers with babes in arms—congregated in the glade, where the previous dancing among the young ones had only been the start of the Full Moon Festival. The homes they came from were the hollowed-out interiors of stumps, and windfalls, and briar-patches growing thick over underground warrens. It happened at rare times that one of the Big People wandered through their camouflaged village, little realizing that around him were the Little Folk, lying hidden with bated breath.
Now the total population gathered in the moonlit glade, perhaps a thousand in all. Around the edges of the assemblage the appointed guards stationed themselves, armed with bows, spears and flint-maces. A hush settled as the Elders approached, the twelve oldest and wisest. Wrinkled, stooped, long-bearded like gnomes, hobbling slowly, they made their way to the center, where an altar of bright stones had been quickly erected.
It was a fairy scene, known to mankind’s history, but never really believed.[*]
The ceremony began.
“Oh Spirit of Life,” began one of the Elders, “make us fleet as the wind!”
“Fleet as the wind!” chanted the assemblage in full-throated chorus.
“Make us strong as the trees!”
“Strong as the trees!”
On and on the echoed invocation went, a chant older than any writing known in the outside world. It ended with the line:
Protect us from the Big Ones!”
This keynote of the brief ceremony rolled plaintively through the silent night forest. Once a month it trilled into the sky, under the light of the benign moon, as it had for countless full moons before.
That was all. Then, because the Little Folk were by nature happy creatures of the wild, bowed heads raised and the festivities assumed full swing. Honey, the nectar of flowers, sweet herbs, luscious nut-meat, and the soft flesh of insects passed freely. Nothing was cooked, for they ate of the freshest and sweetest of nature’s bounty.
Later, another little ceremony occurred, indulged by the Elders. The heaped trinkets stolen from the Big People were raised aloft by willing han
ds and paraded all around the glade, sparkling in the moonlight. Atho, with his gold watch, marched at the head proudly. Voices, young and old, chimed out:
“The Big Ones are clumsy and witless,
We are so clever and spry,
They never will, never will catch us,
Not to the day we die!”
And Atho was allowed the privilege, at the end, of striking a match.
Grasping the matchstick, sword-sized to him, he scraped the knobbed end against the box-stretcher, then held it aloft as a flaming torch. The Little Folk used fire, in the bitterness of winter for heat, but knew nothing of the science behind the making of matches. In many ways, the Big People had mystifying things in their civilization, little of which the tiny forest people knew or cared about.
The flame was not allowed to bum more than a few seconds. It might attract night birds of prey. Atho extinguished it in a conch-shell of water, placed at hand.
Atho felt glowingly happy. Elva was radiant beside him. Then a voice spoke in Atho’s ear, startling him.
It was old, venerable Zutho, of the Elders. The two young people bobbed their heads respectfully.
“You are back, young Atho,” greeted Zutho. “And I have heard you brought the gold watch.”
“Yes, Father,” exulted Atho. “I took it from under their very noses!” He told the story briefly.
“A brave but foolish deed!” Zutho shook his head. “What madness has come upon this generation? This mingling and sneaking among the Big People is dangerous. It might lead to disaster for all of us. We Elders have thought seriously at times of forbidding any further of such exploits! In my time, youngsters were content to show their prowess by hunting a killer-beast and dragging its head back. Why must you, nowadays, scurry about under the feet of the Big Ones?”
Atho smiled.
“In your time, you avoided such exploits?” he queried. “Who was it taught me many words of the Big People’s language, and their writing? Who was it, in his youth, who spent much time—a year perhaps—listening to their talk and examining their writings? And who was it imitated so many of their achievements, their knowledge, even occasionally their clothes? Who was it, Father?”
OLD Zutho coughed a little, and sighed, in memory.
“Yes, my son, it was I. It is true that many of the things of the Big Ones are good. And I cannot blame you for the gold watch. The fire of youth burns strong. And those exploits are our only way of showing defiance, even if secret, of the shadow of the Big Ones over our lives and freedom. Still, it is dangerous. We Elders ask only that you young people remember that, every second of your lives.”
A knot of young people had gathered around, to hear. They nodded solemnly.
Zutho went on, somewhat garrulously.
“For ages, the only way we Little Folk have survived is to keep out of their knowledge. At times, in our dim history, we tried traffic with them. But the last time was so long ago that even in the recordings of the Big People it is fable. For every such venture meant disaster. We were called evil little beings. Or else we were displayed for the sport and enjoyment of the Big Ones. Our communities were sought out, destroyed. We were enslaved. There can only be one race ruling Earth.
“And so, we must be wisely content to exist in widely isolated little communities here and there on Earth. The First Law has been engraved in our policy for thousands of years—never to have traffic with the Big Ones.
“Remember that today, despite our song, they are not so clumsy and witless. Or superstitious about us, which used to be our race’s best protection. Finding us, they would likely not destroy us. But we would have a worse fate—slavery. They would study us, and train us, and breed us—all for purposes of their own. Our free, wild, reasonably happy life beyond their knowledge would be gone.”
The group listening had heard a similar lesson from babyhood on, but it always struck a new, chill note in their hearts. Atho hung his head. His gold watch exploit did not seem so wonderful now.
But old Zutho smiled then.
“I did not mean to be harsh, Atho. The ruling Elders of our race, in succession, have never wanted to make our restricted life any more limited than necessary. The gathering of trinkets is harmless sport, so long as you are cautious and do not violate the First Law. And I’m sure you, Atho, haven’t violated that principle.”
It was not a question, merely a statement. But it hung in the air. The young people shot guarded glances at one another, remembering the note Atho had dared write.
Atho himself stood for a moment dumbly. Could he keep such a rankling secret? But he knew it was not in his nature to be dishonest. Better to tell now and have it over with. He opened his mouth to speak, looking up at Zutho with sudden resolve . . .
Another voice sounded first.
“Father! Atho did violate the First Law. He wrote a note to the Big People I It is my duty to tell it!”
It was Koro’s voice, ringing out loudly and self-righteously.
The young people around Koro shrank away from him, darting him glances of disgust.
“What is this?” demanded Zutho. “Atho, is it true?”
Atho flushed deeply. “It is true.” He told of the note.
Old Zutho sighed in relief. “No harm was done,” he commented. Then his voice crackled angrily. “But it is an offense against the principle of the First Law. You will have to be punished, Atho, It’s a lesson to others!”
THE other Elders came up, as a boy was sent to get them. In the meantime, whispers had gone around the glade. The entire population gathered about. Atho stood shame-faced, wishing he had never set eyes on the gold watch.
Zutho turned from the group of Elders, his wrinkled old face grave.
“Actual violation of the First Law would merit death,” he spoke. “But you had no intentions of communication with the Big People. Therefore, your punishment will be light. One year of woman-status! For one year you will be barred from men’s work and status. You will not hunt or gather food. You cannot marry. You will work with the women, washing and cleaning and preparing food. And for that year you will be barred also from the Full Moon Festivals!”
A year of woman-status! Atho gasped. For a year he must be an object of scorn and pity, doing woman’s work, denied his rightful place as a male! All for writing three little words on a piece of paper for the Big People to read as a taunt!
“It seems heavy punishment, I know,” added Zutho. “But remember, Atho, that in writing those three words, giving the Big People a clue to our existence if not location, you endangered the lives and liberty of our entire community!”
Atho’s first bitterness dissolved to resignation. nodded humbly.
Old Zutho was shaking his head sorrowfully. “±. only you had told me yourself, Atho! That is more disappointing to me than the deed itself.”
Atho made no attempt to insist he had been on the verge of telling. It would sound false. He saw the triumph now, in Koro’s eyes. How meanly he had plotted to interrupt Atho’s courtship of Elva! And would Elva wait a year?
His eyes asked her that. And her eyes, in return, seemed to say yes. Atho felt some uplift of a leaden spirit.
Then he heard a whisper in his ear. Koro had sidled up.
“With you out of the way for a year, as a rival, Elva will be mine! I am going to the Big People and bring back a prize beside which your gold watch will be trifling!”
Burning words came to Atho’s tongue, but he had no chance to answer.
A shout of alarm went up, suddenly, from the alert guards.
A huge shadow passed athwart the glade, in the shape of a winged creature. A thousand pairs of eyes looked up fearfully. It was one of their most dreaded nocturnal enemies—the great owl. Almost silently it swooped down, as big—to the Little Folk—as a giant airplane.
Yet for all of its unexpectedness, the Little Folk were not panic-stricken. They melted away into the protecting thickets, quicker in their flight than the owl was in its lumbering plunge. Th
e Elders were carried away by strong young arms. Yet a few stragglers were endangered.
The twang of spider-silk bowstrings sounded as the armed men loosed a barrage of agate-tipped arrows of bone. Lodging in the bird’s heavy plumage, they did no harm. The owl’s eye was its only vulnerable spot.
All of the stragglers reached the safety of the glade’s thicket-edges, where the great owl could not pursue. All but one. A young girl had stumbled, fallen, and lay stunned. The killer-bird swooped down over this easy prey. Still no arrows had taken effect. A groan went up from the watching people. The girl was struggling to her knees, but now the huge bird was close . . .
At the moment the alarm had sounded, Atho had grasped Elva’s hand and pulled her into the thickets. Now, turning, he saw the plight of the little girl. He snatched a long, wooden spear from a guard’s hand and leaped out into the glade again, seconds before other armed men saw and attempted to run to the rescue. The killer-bird’s claws had already encircled its victim and its wings beat to rise, as Atho stopped to cast.
He was twenty-five feet from the owl. In the scale of measurement used by man, it was a distance of three hundred feet, in proportion to his height. He leaned back on one heel, tipping the spear rearward in his right arm till its butt touched the ground. All his muscles froze into the rigidity of contraction. His flint-blue eyes fixed themselves on his far target, calculatingly. Every nerve and fiber of him centered on the aim.
Then he flung the spear forward with all the impetus of his arched body. It sailed through the moonlight with a deadly whine and buried itself for half its length in the owl’s right eye.
With a raucous scream, the great bird released its burden, and flapped erratically away. It blundered into a tree trunk and fell to the ground. When some of the guards had arrived, its wings were stretching in the rigidity of death. Atho’s cast, one long to be remembered, had pierced its brain. Armed men remained, to ward off scavengers. Later, the bird would be stripped of its feathers, skin-fat and sharp claws, all useful to the Little Folk.