Walk to the End of the World

by Suzy McKee Charnas

  ‘Well, if such plans were made, they never came to completion. What did happen was that an unfortunate friendship was permitted to develop between Eykar Bek and another boy – a bad boy, a boy of clearly corrupt character, a boy who was in fact destined to become a DarkDreamer.’

  D Layo bowed facetiously, and some of the Chesters applauded.

  ‘Now, what do you think came of this attachment? Why, trouble came of it, as any fool could have foreseen. The bad boy’s curiosity led him to explore the art of the DarkDream. He involved Eykar Bek in his activities; they were caught; they were punished. One of the boys was dumped into the Wild to die. The other — Raff Maggomas’ son, as it happened – was exiled to Endpath to become Endtendant, even though he was not yet invested as a Junior.’

  Suddenly d Layo shot out a pointing hand: ‘And there he is. While he’s here among you, you might ask him why he abandoned his assigned work-turf. Ask him why he turned away a mob of sick-stinking whiteheads (with perhaps a few broken-spirited lads mixed in among them) and left the death-manna for someone else — or no one else — to brew. Ask him where he’s going and who he’s looking for and what he means to do when he finds him!’

  The sullen-faced man gnawed at his thumbnail, saying nothing. No one spoke. They all looked at the Endtendant.

  Kelmz heard Bek’s voice rattle rustily in his throat a moment, before the words came out: ‘I have a question for Raff Maggomas.’

  ‘Only one question?’ a Chester shouted. It wasn’t a joke; nobody laughed.

  Another cried, ‘Why hasn’t he had you killed?’

  ‘Have you any real, blood brothers that you know of?’

  ‘My question,’ the Endtendant said, over their excited murmuring, ‘is this: I want to know why I was singled out from among those who otherwise would have been my peers. I want to know the reason for blackening my whole life with the shadow of another man, of another generation.’

  A Junior stood up and said, ‘I have a question I’d like asked too, as long as you’re going to be asking questions. This Maggomas must be an old man now, maybe he’ll know the answer. I’d like to know how come Seniors live on limitless credit for doing nothing while working men have to get by on the pitiful rations they give us. That’s what I’d like to know.’ He sat down again.

  Other questions followed. The Chester Juniors asked what they would never have dared to ask any Senior to his face: how was it that the cloth-cocks took the most powerful manna to dream themselves into fitting strength of mind and virtue, but still acted with spite and self-indulgence when awake? How was it that they said one thing and did another, all the time cursing the Juniors for famishing deceitfulness? Enforced the age-line except where it cut them off from the objects of their own lusts? Would hear no petition from younger men unless in the presence of the Boardmen, whose power over young men’s lives was utterly intimidating? Ruled that a young man had to carry all his life a name picked from a list drawn out of the Boardmen’s dreams, though he might wish to call himself after some friend or hero in respectful memory?

  Their voices raw with fury, the Chesters gave the Endtendant no chance to speak. He stood silent, ice-eyed, like a personification of the cold heart of their rage.

  When the excitement began to die down, Hak made one last try: ‘How do we know that this DarkDreamer has told us the truth?’

  ‘Ask one you trust,’ d Layo rejoined. He nodded at Kelmz. ‘What does the first fighter in the Holdfast, the man who won’t take his mantle, have to say?’

  Kelmz cleared his throat and said he thought truth had been spoken.

  The Chesters set up a roar and a storm of clapping. Hak bowed to it; he promised on behalf of the whole company to do what was needed to speed the Endtendant on his way. Immediately, d Layo outlined what he wanted.

  ‘When the rumors of his having claimed a son got out, Maggomas left the Tekkans and went off to Bayo, and we haven’t heard of him since. We can’t go to the Board and ask them where he is, and the men at Bayo are Penneltons assigned there this five-year, so they won’t know anything. Some of the older Bayo fems might remember, though, and anything they know we can get out of them – if we can reach them and deal with them privately. We need you lads to see to it that we won’t be disturbed in Bayo.

  ‘Set us down on the coast a little way north, and you go on upriver and dock at Bayo as usual. We’ll make our way there through the marshes and try to enter the fems’ quarters after dark. All you have to do is to make dinner in Bayo such a drunken, enjoyable affair that no Penneltons come wandering outside while we’re looking for a way into the fems’ section.

  ‘After that, we’re on our own – but the longer you can keep our visit among you secret, the better for us and for you.’

  ‘Done,’ said Hak, promptly, before any more could be asked. ‘Done!’ shouted the Chester Juniors. Someone added, ‘And a DarkDream to seal it,’ a cry which others took up.

  Ferrymen were only permitted to dream between runs, under the auspices of their Seniors. Now they were daring in their excitement. Learning that d Layo had only enough manna to serve a few, they quickly put together a group of eight to represent the complicity of them all in the fugitives’ lawlessness. Sullen-face and the freckled lad were both included.

  For the others, Hak had kegs of beer broken out to go with the scanty evening meal. Supplies were apt to run short at the end of the coastal run, and the only ferrymen to escape the grip of hunger tonight would be those lucky enough to be caught up in a dream. Some of the more talented chanters performed around the play-pen, improvising lyrics and obscene pantomimes, a welcome distraction to the others.

  Hak was a good chief; he knew how to pull his people together. Kelmz was ashamed of d Layo’s blatant theatrics, and he hoped that the one-eyed ferryman wouldn’t suffer for all this in the end. For a man who bore no responsibility himself, d Layo was adept at maneuvering those who did.

  The dreaming-group went back to the story-box area and hung mats from the ceiling for privacy. A ferryman brought a pitcher of beer and some mismatched mugs on a tray; another supplied a mixing-whisk of straws bound with cord. D Layo squatted by a brazier and heated the beer, not bothering with the Chants Preparatory. The others, seated in a circle around him, began to murmur the Chant Thankful, which extolled the virtues of the hemp: it provided fiber to clothe men’s bodies, food for their nourishment, and manna for the dreaming of their souls. Sullen-face sweated a lot, and stuttered every time he chanted the refrain.

  It was, Kelmz thought, going to be one sorry excuse for any kind of a dreaming.

  D Layo used the doubled-over hem of his shirt to pad the hot handle of the pitcher. A sweet scent rose as he shook powder from the compartments in his bracelet into the steaming liquid. He whipped the mixture in the cups before taking the ceremonial first sip from each one.

  A man could grow attached to the rituals, especially if (like Kelmz) he was accustomed to being dream-giver to Rovers who were utterly dependent on him in that role. The Chants Commanding, which went with Rover-dreaming, kept running through Kelmz’ mind. He glanced at the Endtendant, whose angular face showed nothing at all.

  It was absurd to impute nostalgia to him, of course. The dream he had given had always been death. He could hardly have put off his own bracelet of office with any feeling but relief.

  D Layo began handing out the cups. Bek refused with a wordless shake of his head, and no one made anything of it; but when Kelmz hesitated, he noticed that several of the ferrymen were watching him anxiously. Perhaps they had never DarkDreamed before. They trusted Kelmz’ judgment and were waiting for him to drink.

  This wouldn’t be the first time Kelmz had DarkDreamed. He had indulged once or twice to no great effect, with fellow officers. That had been before he had started seeing beasts, a thing that had come upon him suddenly soon after Danzer had died with his throat torn out by a rogue Rover. Kelmz had not DarkDreamed since then. His waking visions were DarkDream enough.

  N
ow he looked into the cup, warming his hands on the glazed surface, and thought, why not? He was an outlaw among outlaws, his legitimate life was over. He drank.

  The manna-beer tasted gluey; d Layo hadn’t taken time to mix it properly, the slovenly brute.

  The others drank too. They hunched closer together and listened to d Layo, who had begun a low, singing-chant.

  A man was supposed to be an individual. He was supposed to go apart and strengthen his soul with a dream from among those taught in the Boyhouse, which were all on the same heroic themes: dreams of victorious battles against monsters, dreams of power and wealth bent to the good of lesser men, dreams of manly love and lifelong loyalties, dreams of endurance and achievement - an endless selection of patterns keynoted to the manly virtues. In this way the soul could be schooled independently of the drowning flesh. Each man, in command of his own dreaming, chose the proper dream for his own needs and weaknesses.

  D Layo told them to forget all that and give him control. He would show them how to free their souls for the delight of knowing what they were, not what they ought to be. It was seditious nonsense that undermined manly self-discipline and integrity, but he made it attractive.

  ‘Let me teach you,’ d Layo murmured, ‘to relax your mind and soul, to open the dark core of yourself and free what lives there. Every soul is equal before a DarkDreamer, and every soul is unique; what is your soul?’

  The insidious lure of DarkDreaming lay partly in this deliberate abolition of hierarchy. D Layo led them into the void of their hidden selves, where any mad chaos was possible. He was skillful, nothing like the fumbling fools Kelmz had encountered before. Gently, the DarkDreamer touched Sullen-face, drawing out the hesitant movements of his limbs and his slowcurling fingers. The man’s mouth simpered open, his hands began to stroke downward on his own chest and thighs. He cringed, he melted, he was a fem.

  Revolted, Kelmz looked away. For himself, he realized, he had hoped to see beasts – real beasts, hot-hided, pungently scented alien beings – not the pathetic perversions of other men.

  Now d Layo was working on Hak. One-eyed Hak, chief of the crew on the coastal run, tumbled over and rolled on the floor, shielding himself from invisible kicks and blows, yammering. The DarkDreamer seemed to dance over and around him, perfecting the ferryman’s performance with a touch, a whisper, a tug at the sleeve.

  Kelmz began to shake.

  He couldn’t understand the meaning of the upright-walking being that came toward him, sniffed at him, put its hot, smooth touch on him. Panicky, he reared back to escape, but there were barriers. He struck out. The tall-walker evaded him and withdrew. Alone, penned in, he squeezed his eyes half shut and swung his head away from the bright, flaring heat and burning smell. Deep tremors of fear shuddered through him. He swayed from side to side, nosing the air for a familiar scent. There was none.

  A sound found its way out of his throat, a whimper. He rocked his weight from shoulder to shoulder and moaned out his despair and isolation; but there came no answering voice.

  It was day. Close by, a man slept all asprawl, snoring. Another had burrowed his way under a pile of woven mats so that only his haunches stuck out, collapsed sideways over his bent legs.

  ‘Stand up, Captain,’ the Endtendant commanded.

  He was right to give that order, though he was only a Junior. Kelmz stood, blinking.

  ‘Sun’s fire!’ he croaked; ‘I was a beast!’

  D Layo was laughing. ‘Look at him, he’s upset because his secret is out. What a secret! He should know as many men as I do who dream themselves a coat of fur or feathers when they get the chance!’

  SERVAN D LAYO

  6

  Servan was high as a flag. Each go-round with manna was a gamble for him; his tolerance for it was undependable. When it left him exalted he was the victor. He shook the empty bracelet along his arm as he walked. He would have to see about getting hold of some more good stuff, now that he’d used up his supply on that pack of ferry-punks.

  The ferrymen had let them off at midday. The three men made their way through the marshes in the still, warm afternoon. The hike gave them time to emerge from the after-effects of the dreaming. Kelmz, in particular, needed that. He was in a black, bewildered mood and walked apart from the others.

  As for Servan, he held onto his euphoria; he was practiced in keeping alert enough to function well in spite of his intoxication. That their destination was the fem-center of the entire Holdfast increased his good humor. He had always intended to visit Bayo, in order to fill a gap in his professional background — as he explained several times to his companions, between snatches of song. Inside his head an on-running paean of praise to his own good luck rippled along, woven of scraps of songs he had wrung from various fems who had passed through his hands. Completely unable to produce a true note of his own, he had spent a period of his life pursuing others’ music. That craze was over now, but he had learned a lot and still liked to sing, however tonelessly. Besides, one thing he still had a craze for was needling Eykar, and he knew perfectly well that his singing needled Eykar.

  There was no one to hear him but themselves. The grass of the marshes was allowed to grow undisturbed to head height, curing in the salty mud. The Bayo fems were sent to harvest it as needed for weaving, and you could always hear them coming a mile off, singing their work-chants. The scattered stands and thickets were deserted now.

  The footing was soggy, but Servan liked the hiss and rustle of their passage through the tall, yellow stems. Stripes of gold and shadow glided over their skins and clothing, giving a fantastic, underwater motion effect. The sunlight struck obliquely toward them between the ribbons of grass; they must have been slogging along like this for some time. He’d hardly noticed.

  Soon there came the piping of the flutes of Bayo, which were said to skirl as ceaselessly as the horns blew in Lammintown. There was a song that said the flutists’ indrawn breath sucked up the spirits of dead fems and that it was these ghost-voices which sang so sadly from the instruments. An interesting conceit. Servan was eager to see fems on what must be considered their homeground.

  Bayo had begun as nothing more than a crude outpost of the City, which lay forty miles inland. The flats between the City and the southern mouth of the river were perfectly suited to the growing of lavers. These freshwater weeds, both tasty and nutritious, grew best in nutrient-rich, shallow waters. So the south channel of the river had been dammed into ponds, into which the City’s sewage was fed. Then stone causeways had been built bestriding the ponds and linking Bayo with the City. Lastly, the structures of Bayo itself had gone up, to house a permanent fem labor force and whatever company of men was assigned to supervise them.

  Surrounded on the seaward side by the golden grass, the thick crescent of Bayo buildings crouched, compact and unadorned, between the southern margins of the ponds and the river’s mouth where the ferry docked. Bayo’s walls were of mud-brick, fired to withstand the summer rains. All the structures had been erected on a ramp of similar brick that sloped noticeably upward from the dockside warehouses to the farther horn of the crescent, where the pyramidal men’s compound reared up overlooking everything. The quarters of the fems comprised the curved centre.

  This evening, from the bright-windowed men’s compound came cheerful rills of flute notes and a drum beat reinforced by the stamp of dancing feet. The Penneltons’ greeting-feast for the ferrymen was in full swing. Hopefully, the Chesters would maintain the secret of their complicity with the fugitives outside for some hours yet.

  The three of them squatted in the high grass, weary and coated to the knees in marsh mud. An unpleasant odor hung in the air, penetrating even the dank salt-smell of the marshes. Probably the odor was connected with the cloudy emissions from the chimneys clustered on the rooftops of buildings adjoining the warehouses. Those would be the workrooms, a good place to enter, if they could get past the guards.

  Three pairs of Rovers patrolled the lighted gallery which ran
along the inside curve of the crescent. Servan considered Rovers to be highly overrated as fighting men. Once you figured out that they worked on the principle of the pre-emptive strike, it was easy to deal with them. Acting out of fear themselves, they interpreted others’ fear of them as a presage of aggression and responded by attacking first. Seen in this way, theirs was a reasonable sort of behavior. Servan had a theory that the famous ‘mature’ composure of Senior men was primarily protective, to prevent the unintended triggering of Rovers against the Seniors themselves. Servan had adopted the show of serenity in his own contact with Rovers quite successfully.

  A man like Kelmz, however, was not to be wasted in a situation like this. Servan waited while Kelmz sized up their position independently and came, naturally, to the same conclusion. The captain made a stay-put sign and moved off silently toward the warehouses. For a big man, he could travel very neatly when he chose to.

  Servan sat back to wait, turning his mind firmly from considerations of food. They had eaten nothing since morning, and now that the manna-high had worn off, he was hungry. He hummed part of a song concerning ‘Rovers, red-handed, mad-eyed warders, dreadful and deadly to fems.’

  The two Rovers guarding the workroom and warehouse end of the crescent came swinging down the gallery in step, bald-headed and thick-bodied like two rough clay men made from the same mold. That their features could not be discerned in the shadows of the thatch overhead seemed only fitting; their anonymous madness was their most formidable aspect. Servan knew from experience that they were so nearly soulless, like the mechanical men of Ancient legend, that they were a disappointment to kill unless fully aroused – something that at present was to be avoided.