The Candle of Distant Earth

by Alan Dean Foster

  Braouk made room for the human between his own mass and the upward curving control area that was built directly into the material of the scoop ship itself. Snugging back against the bristle-like yellow-green fur of his friend kept Walker warm and, surprisingly, Braouk’s hair was not as itch-inducing against his bare skin as it appeared. To think, he told himself, that at one time he would have fainted in terror if he had been compelled to endure such close proximity to a being like Braouk. Friends with him now for years, he had changed so much that he actually sought the close contact.

  I have changed, he thought as the scoop ship accelerated toward the area of greatest activity. Changed in ways that as recently as three or four years ago he could not have imagined. But then, no one could. Three moons gazing down on him from high above, he sped in alien company aboard an alien craft toward a harvest of foodstuffs that more than anything else resembled lavender lightpoles. The food preparer half of him was intrigued by their culinary potential.

  As they drew nearer, he saw that attached to the underside of each bale was an individual drive device that both propelled and guided it. Keeping perfect time and interval between one another, one bale after another made its way from distant field to local processing unit under the active supervision of scoop ship-riding Tuuqalians. The system was far more advanced than anything back home, he realized. Why load a truck with tomatoes and further burden it with a driver when you could set the load of vegetables to drive and guide itself to the intended destination?

  A new sound reached him. Rising above the hum and whirr of technologically advanced reaping and processing machinery, it was at once familiar and new. New, because of the volume that was involved. Swooping and darting among the gigantic bales of recently harvested chimttabt, busy multi-limbed Tuuqalians burst out in boisterous song. No, not singing, he corrected himself. They were collaborating in an a cappella choir of alien saga-spinning. Their strangely pitched, collective voices boomed and echoed like velvet thunder across the unreaped vegetation below, rising and falling almost in concert with their vehicles as they managed the complicated business of chimttabt harvesting.

  Massive alien muscles swelled against Walker’s back as Braouk joined in the joyous chorus. After a few moments, he paused. While the scoop ship hovered, both eyes hooked around in front of Walker to look back at him.

  “Will you join, in the communal recitation, my friend? I will provide you with the words. Your system of sound-making is smaller than ours, but the mechanics are not so very different.”

  “Why not?” After a few tries, listening and repeating, Walker felt he could mimic the Tuuqalian timbre near enough not to embarrass himself.

  When next Braouk resumed his work, it was two voices that rose from the scoop ship: one local, the other imported. Human and Tuuqalian. Dipping and darting among the cumbersome bales, they occasionally passed close by other workers. Tentacles waved in their direction and astonished eyes extended fully on stalks as one worker after another goggled at the sight of the small, furless alien not only riding in tandem with one of their own, but joining lustily in the saga-spinning that accompanied the mechanical ballet of scoop ships and bales and multi-limbed operators. And all the while the three moons Teldk, Melevt, and Melaft beamed down from an alien sky on the festive commotion below, in which one lone and lonely human was a most unexpected participant.

  The cool air, redolent of growing Tuuqalian things and pungent mechanical smells and the musky body odor of the methodical giant behind him, washed over his face and naked form. Moons and multi-limbed monsters, truck-sized bales of plum-hued plants and deep-throated processing devices, danced before his now night-adapted eyes. What was the expression? “Never in your wildest dreams…”

  It was, he mused as their scoop ship shot close enough past another for him to note with glee the surprised reaction of the other’s operator, a long way from motoring boredly through the cornfields south of Chicago to visit friends in Springfield for the weekend.

  Tuuqalia’s benign sun was just showing itself over the horizon when a jovial Braouk returned an exhausted but exultant Walker to the residence that had been assigned to him and his companions. As he stepped off the powerful little vehicle and back onto the building’s upper-level porch, Marc expressed his gratitude by giving the Tuuqalian a punch between upper and lower right-side tentacles, hard enough that he hoped his oversized friend might actually feel it.

  “What a great night! I can’t thank you enough, Braouk. I’ve attended some all-night parties in my time, but nothing like this. The diving and swooping, the massed saga-chanting, the colors in the moonlight: it’s something I’ll remember forever.”

  “Was just harvest,” the alien rumbled diffidently. “But I was, glad you could participate, friend Marcus. At such times, sharing is always best, with friends.” One huge appendage curled fondly around Walker’s shoulders, then withdrew.

  Squinting against the rising alien sun, Walker waved as the scoop ship angled away from the balcony. Turning and walking back to the wall, he casually inserted a couple of fingers into the blue glow of the control and stepped through the opening it produced. As it sealed behind him, a familiar voice barked sharply from the dim depths of the temperate sleeping area.

  “Where have you been all night? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Good dog,” Walker murmured as he made his tired way toward his crib of silken wrappings. Between the excitement of the nocturnal experience and a complete lack of sleep, he was thoroughly bushed. The makeshift cot with its glistening bale of alien padding called to him.

  A fast-moving, small brown shape blocked his path and refused access to the beckoning bed. “Don’t ‘good dog’ me—bad human. Where were you?”

  “Carrying out research on local agriculture. And making friends.” Lurching to his left, he tried to dodge around his companion. George scampered quickly to cut him off. Behind them, Sque slumbered peacefully on, oblivious to the overwrought confrontation.

  “In the middle of the night? On an alien world?” Something caught the dog’s eye. Leaning to his right, he tried to peer behind his friend. “What happened to your back?”

  “Hmm?” Half-asleep now, Walker tried to look over his shoulder and down at himself. “I don’t see anything.”

  Trotting around behind him, George stood up on his hind legs and rested his forepaws against Walker’s thigh. “You look like you’ve been whipped by a dozen angry pixies.”

  “What? Oh, that comes from leaning my bare back against Braouk’s front all night and being thrown all over the place. You know how bristly his fur is. Almost quill-like. It was to be expected after a night of hard riding.” Shrugging George off his thigh, Walker made a beeline for the looming bed and slumped gratefully into the mass of alien wrapping material.

  “‘Hard riding’?” George was now able to look his prostrate friend in the eye. “If you tell me you were out rustling alien cattle, I’m going to have to raise serious doubts with Gerlla-hyn’s medical staff about the state of your sanity.”

  “Not cattle,” Walker murmured sleepily. “Chimttabt. The big, purplish striated stalks we’ve seen growing in several regions. Self-propelled bales of the stuff.” He snuggled deeper into the welcoming mass of soft but strong pale blue strands. “During harvest time, the Tuuqalians of these northern plains work around the clock.”

  “I see,” George observed dangerously. “Really dove into local custom, didn’t you? Next time I’d appreciate your letting me know when you’re going to do something like that. You might keep in mind that I, at least, have a reasonable phobia where unannounced disappearances are concerned. One you ought to empathize with.”

  “Sorry.” By now almost asleep, it was all Walker could do to mumble a reply.

  Standing up and leaning over, George dragged his tongue wetly across Walker’s eyes. It was sufficient stimulus to keep his friend awake. “What were you thinking, Marc? You doing all-night research because you’re planning on going native? Thi
nking about settling down, hiring a few tentacles, and raising some orange and purple outrages of your own? Or have you forgotten that we’re supposed to be focusing all our efforts and all our energies on trying to find a way home? Which right now means getting our four-limbed, flex-eyed hosts to dig through their astronomical charts and records in hopes of doing that?”

  Raising his head slightly to meet George’s gaze, Walker responded irritably. “That’s what Sobj-oes and Habr-wec and their Iollth counterparts are doing. Our job is to continue diplomacy by further cementing our relationship with the locals. That’s what I was doing. That’s essentially what we did on Seremathenn, to a greater extent on Niyu, and to a lesser one on Hyff. Don’t fret, George. I’m sorry I made you worry about me. Next time I’ll wake you up.” He nodded in the direction of the still sleeping Sque. “Take a hint from our decapodal female friend and don’t lose sleep.”

  “Sure,” George snapped. “Like she’d care if you went out in the middle of the night and never came back. In contrast, I do care.”

  “I know you do, George, but I was never in any danger, and I know what I’m doing. I like these people, even if they do have twice the appropriate number of limbs, eyes that weave around on stalks like balloons on strings, mouths that run north to south instead of side to side, and enough mass and muscle to out-sumo a grizzly. You need to relax.” Lowering his head, he burrowed into the hospitable, cushioning alien material. “And speaking of relaxing, leave me alone. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m dog-tired.”

  “Just don’t lose yourself, Marc.” George was more worried than he let on. “Just don’t let an appreciation for the new and exotic make you lose sight of our real goal.” Standing on his hind legs with his forepaws on the edge of the makeshift bed allowed him to poke his snout almost into Walker’s upturned left ear. “Steaks and pasta, Marc. Not purple and blue pâté. Ice cream and coffee. Football. The sights and smells of the river. Old friends talking. Making money. Going to the movies (unfinished and discarded popcorn being one of George’s own favorite snacks).” Using his snout and neck, he nudged the back of his friend’s head.

  “Don’t forget all these things when you’re overcome by some new, alien sight or sound or sensation. Don’t forget about home. Females in heat,” he added as a last resort.

  It did no good. His human was fast asleep, wheezing contentedly into the depths of the supportive alien pile.

  Stay here if you want, then, he thought angrily as he turned and trotted away. Or go back to Niyu and try to establish some kind of relationship with your scrawny alien admirer. Or return to Seremathenn and live off the largesse of the Sessrimathe. I can get home without you.

  But he couldn’t, he knew. Walker was the titular leader of this voyage, having so been anointed by the Niyyuu and accepted as such by the Iollth and the Hyfft. Without him, if only as a unifying figurehead, it was unlikely even Sque was capable of persuading the Niyyuu, in particular, to continue with the journey.

  Probably he was worrying unnecessarily. Hadn’t Marc expressed an equally strong desire to find their way back home? The human had just enjoyed an exhilarating nocturnal experience, that was all. George began to feel he was being unduly suspicious. Doubtless it stemmed from all those years of being chased down back alleys by marauding abandoned rottweilers and bastard half pit bulls.

  Dog-tired. Come to think of it, all the pacing and worrying about his two-legged friend had left him notably short on sleep himself. Wandering over to his own bed, which was nothing more than a much smaller, less densely upholstered version of Walker’s, he stepped into it, paced off three increasingly tight circles, and flumped down into a warm, furry, self-contained pile.

  When Sque eventually roused herself, the first thing she did was spend several minutes pondering possible new ways to describe the unremitting laziness of the two semi-comatose specimens from Earth, whose respective consciousnesses she was unable to rouse despite the application of repeated prodding and inventive invective.

  As Tuuqalians ate their communal meals only twice, once in the morning at sunrise and the other at night during sunset, the vast dining hall was empty save for a few stragglers when Walker and George eventually woke up enough to stumble in and request food. Having by now learned which local victuals were tolerated by their system and which would induce, among other things, uncontrolled vomiting, it did not take long to choose a couple of the smallest of the shallow divided bowls the Tuuqalians utilized. Despite the fact that it was not a recognized mealtime, there was more than enough leftover food to satisfy them both. Together, they ate less than a single Tuuqalian would consume as an appetizer.

  Sque accompanied them. Not because she was hungry, which she was not, but out of the usual mixture of boredom and curiosity. One could only slumber for so long in the temporary sleeping quarters that had been assigned to them. Also, thanks to the nature of Tuuqalian cuisine, the interior of the dining hall was just moist enough for her to be comfortable. The cool, dry air of the atmosphere outside was much less to her liking.

  Climbing up onto the now largely empty curved table, she settled herself down to examine her surroundings. Occasionally she would glance down at her primitive companions, marveling at their ability to consume almost anything with apparent enjoyment. But then, one could not expect even an educated food preparer like the human Walker to possess the educated palate of a K’eremu.

  His snout buried in the bowl that had been placed before him, George lay on the floor next to his friend. Walker sat with legs crossed and the food bowl balanced between them. It did not matter that the Tuuqalians did not use chairs because the table was too high for him to reach comfortably anyway. Designed for grasping by massive, powerful tentacles, the single all-purpose Tuuqalian food scoop was equally useless. This deficiency did not trouble George, who had no grasping limbs anyway. As for Walker, he was content to eat with his fingers.

  As he did so, he admired the gentle arc of the table edge above him. Its curvature was similar to that of the balcony on which he had stood last night, as well as the fluid lines of the scoop ship he had ridden with Braouk. Tuuqalian design was surprisingly relaxed and sophisticated, all gentle curves and smooth surfaces. It contrasted rather than clashed with the hearty, rough-hewn nature of the Tuuqalians themselves. Like the floor of every local building or room he had entered, that of the extended family dining hall rose gently toward the center. So did the ceiling, giving every Tuuqalian room the aspect of a fried egg.

  He realized with a start that local architecture set out in physical reality the same kind of undulating meter that characterized Tuuqalian sagas. All of a unified whole, the subtleness of it had escaped him until this moment. It was something he would never have noticed back on Earth. His travels, his encounters, were sharpening his perception in ways he could never have imagined.

  He was no longer the same person he had been when he had been taken, he knew. Whoever had said that travel was broadening could never have envisioned what he had experienced these past couple of years. Not that he had ever been prejudiced, for example, or looked on others who were slightly different from him with anything other than usual jaundiced urban eye. But even any subconscious vestiges of suppressed disapproval of other ethnicities or cultures had vanished due to the company he had been compelled to keep.

  Look at the Tuuqalians. The first one he had encountered had struck him as a ravening monster, best to be avoided if not killed outright. True, Braouk had been suffering from the effects of his captivity and at the time had not been quite himself, but that still did not wholly excuse Walker’s initial revulsion. He had reacted without trying to understand, like a threatened chimp. Now Braouk and his kind were not only friends, they were, as the Tuuqalian had recently informed him, family.

  Family. He munched on something bulbous and blue that back home he would instinctively have thrown into the trash. It was sweet and flavorful. What constituted family? Was it only blood? A straightforward genetic linkage? Or co
uld it be expanded to encompass shared ideals, other intelligences, different desires? Who did he really have more in common with? His cousin Larry, who thought farting was the epitome of witty humor and who lived only for inhaling the fumes at Chicago-area racetracks? Or Braouk, thoughtful and creative, if characteristically long-winded? As he chewed, letting alien sugars satiate his system, his attention shifted to where Sque reposed on the table just above him.

  Five serpentine limbs dangled lazily off the side of the table while the other five maintained a grip on its surface. From the center of these serpentine coilings rose a tapering, maroon-hued mass that gently expanded and contracted with the K’eremu’s breathing. Set in slots of silver, her pupils were horizontal instead of round or vertical. Like a butterfly’s siphon, the pinkish speaking tube lay coiled against her body, just above the round mouth. She was about as far from cousin Larry as anything animate he could imagine. And yet, for all the sarcasm and inherent condescension of her kind, she was a better friend and companion than his blood relation. On more than one occasion her intelligence and, yes, caring, had gone a long way toward sustaining his life. All Larry had ever done was borrow money.

  How then should one judge intelligence and amity? By the number of limbs and eyes something possessed, by its manner of speaking, or by skin color or hair style? The more experiences he endured, the more he learned, the greater the shallowness of his own kind weighed on him.

  When I get home, he vowed, it’s going to be different. I’m going to be different. He would not have to work hard at it, he knew. Travel was broadening.

  They were almost finished when a familiar figure lurched into the hall, searched with scanning eyes, and found them. Lumbering over, Broullkoun-uvv-ahd-Hrashkin thrust one eye in George’s direction and the other at Walker.

  “Still you enjoy, food of my family, for eating?”

  Rummaging around in his bowl, an unsqueamish Walker held up something that back home he would have consigned to his condo’s garbage disposal. “The poatk is delicious, and so is everything else.”