Into the Thinking Kingdoms

by Alan Dean Foster

  Putting the plate in a drying rack, the owner turned in surprise. “You are a sheep man, then?”

  Simna rolled his eyes. “Oh no.” Near his feet, Ahlitah wound three times around himself before, satisfied, he lay down in front of the fire.

  “Sheep, yes, and cattle. Mostly cattle.”

  “I have never been a man for cattle.” Taking an intricately carved pipe from its stand, the homeowner ambled over to the stone hearth. Selecting a narrow taper from a small box affixed to the rockwork, he stuck it into the flames until it acquired one of its own, then touched the flickering tip to the bowl of the pipe. While he drew on the contents, he spoke around each puff. “Too rambunctious for me, and a bit much for one man to handle. Even with Roileé to help.”

  “Roileé?” The herdsman searched the room for signs of another resident.

  “My dog.” The owner smiled delightfully around the stem of his pipe. “She’s getting on, and she’s lost a step or two, but she’s still the best sheepdog in these mountains. I am Lamidy Coubert, and I think you are not from the Thinking Kingdoms.”

  “How can you tell?” Simna chuckled softly.

  Coubert laughed along with the swordsman. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he gestured with its bowl. “Well for one thing, no one I have heard of, not even lords and noblemen, travels with a house cat of quite such imposing dimensions. Much less one that speaks.” Seeing Ehomba’s expression, he added, “I heard all three of you talking outside as you approached the cottage. And your manner of dress, my friend, is also strikingly new to me.” He frowned slightly as he turned to Simna. “Your attire I can almost place.”

  “You live alone here, Lamidy Coubert?” Ehomba asked him.

  “Yes. Except for Roileé, of course.”

  “Yet you allow us, three strangers, freely into your home. Two well armed, and the third a meat-eater of great size and strength. And you are not afraid?”

  Coubert coughed lightly, checked his pipe. “If your intentions were malicious I could not have stopped you. So I might as well greet you.” His smile returned. “Besides, I have lived a long time now by myself. Here on the edge of civilization I get few visitors. So I try to treasure those I do.”

  “I hate to disillusion you, old man, but this isn’t the edge of civilization. South of here lies the port of Lybondai and a host of other coastal cities.” Simna’s throat was calling for refreshment but he decided to hold off a while longer to see if their host offered before he made the request. “And beyond that, the sea of Aboqua, and the cities and cultures of the south. Myself, I’m from far to the east, and I can tell you, we’re goddamn civilized out that way.”

  “I am sure.” The oldster was courteously contrite. “I meant no insult. It is simply the view that is generally held in the Thinking Kingdoms, and therefore one with which I am familiar, though I do not hold to it myself.” He gestured expansively. “Obviously, you three are as civilized as any people.”

  “Two.” On the thick oval carpet before the crackling fireplace, Ahlitah spoke without lifting his head from his paws.

  “Yes, well.”

  “Where are the Thinking Kingdoms?” Ehomba inquired softly. Beyond the door and window, evening was stealing stealthily over the land. The muffled baaing of sheep was interrupted by the occasional booming of muted thunder. He could not tell which way the gathering storm was moving. With each strobing flash of unseen lightning the walls of the cottage seemed to grow stronger, and to tighten around them all like a finely made, heavy coat. A chill entered via the still open upper half of the double door. Feeling it, Coubert moved to shut the remaining barrier against the rising wind.

  “The Thinking Kingdoms are all the lands to the north of here,” their host explained as he returned to stand near the fireplace, slightly to one side of the sputtering, popping blaze itself. “There is Bondressey, and the Dukedom of Veroi-verai. Farther to the north one may enter the Grand Barony of Melespra, which is bordered by Squoy East and Squoy South. East of the Grand Barony lies the river port of Urenon the Elegant, and downstream from it the province of Phan that is ruled by the enlightened Count Tyrahnar Cresthelmare.

  “Those are only a few of the most notable kingdoms immediately to the north of here. There are many more, to east and west and to the north of Phan.”

  “And all these tribes—these kingdoms,” Ehomba corrected himself. “They are at peace? I ask because we must travel farther north still.”

  “There are always disputes and altercations, bickerings and controversies.” Coubert turned philosophical. “It is the nature of sovereigns to debate. But war is rare in the Thinking Kingdoms. Each ruler prides himself on his or her intelligence and learning. Altercations are most likely to be settled through reasoned discussion, sometimes by greatly respected teams of logicians.”

  Simna indicated the pack and sword he had removed and placed near his feet. “Everybody’s different, Gulyulo says. Where I come from, we talk a lot while we’re arguing, but it’s usually loud, unreasoning, and in words of one syllable.”

  “I can believe that.” Coubert turned back to Ehomba. “And you, my tall friend? How are disputations settled in your country?”

  “The Naumkib are too small and too few to enjoy the luxury of infighting. We are too busy surviving to waste time and energy on individual quarrels.”

  “Yet despite this claimed pacificity you carry not one but three large and unusual weapons,” the observant sheepherder pointed out sagely.

  “It was thought I should be as well equipped as possible for this journey. Not every creature, much less every human, that one meets in strange lands is ready or willing to sit down and peacefully work out disagreements.”

  “Hoy, you can say that again! Especially the ones that want to eat you.” Simna started to curl his legs up on the chair beneath his backside, then thought better of it. Not that he was shy, but his feet had not been washed in days, and though he would never admit to it, he was slightly intimidated by the unexpected tidiness of their surroundings.

  “Whither are you bound, then?” their host inquired. “To which of the Thinking Kingdoms?” Reflected firelight danced in his pale green eyes.

  “To none of them, based on what you have told us.” Ehomba felt himself growing sleepy. It had been a long day’s march, the welcoming warmth of the fire was seeping inexorably into his tired muscles, and the plushness of the couch on which his lanky frame reposed was intoxicating. “We have to cross the Semordria, and to do that we have learned that we must go to Hamacassar to find a ship.”

  “Hamacassar!” For the first time since their arrival, the little man looked startled. “So far! And yet just a prelude to a greater journey still. I am impressed. You are great travelers.”

  “You bet your chin hairs we are.” Simna nodded in the herdsman’s direction. “And my friend there, he’s a grand and powerful wizard. He claims to be doing this only to help some lady, but I know he’s really after a great treasure.” Looking smug, the swordsman crossed his arms over his chest and compromised with his legs by laying them across a small serving table.

  The sheepherder nodded slowly as he digested this information before turning back to Ehomba. “Is what your friend says true? Are you a wizard?”

  “Not only not a wizard,” the southerner protested, “but not grand or powerful, either. I was well prepared for this journey by the good people of my village, that is all.” He threw Simna a dirty look, but the swordsman ignored him. “Some people get an idea into their heads and no matter what you do, you cannot get it away from them. They bury it as deeply as a dog does a favorite bit of offal.”

  “Oh, don’t I know that!” Puffing on his pipe, Lamidy Coubert chuckled under his breath. “A person’s mind is a hard thing to change, it is. Living up here by myself like this, I’m often the butt of jokes from the people of Cailase village, where I buy those things I can’t make myself. Or I am looked upon with suspicion and uncertainty by those few visitors who do manage to make it this f
ar into the mountains.” He manifested a kindly grin. “But after they meet me, their concerns usually disappear quite rapidly. I’m not what even the most fearful would call a threatening figure.” He gestured with one hand at the surrounding room.

  “As you can see, I don’t even keep any weapons here.”

  Ehomba nodded, then eyed the old man with interest. “Where I live there are many predators. They are very fond of sheep as well as cattle. We have to watch over our herds every minute, or the meat-eaters would take the chance to snatch a lamb or calf. So we need our weapons. You have no predators here?”

  “Oh yes, of course. Dire wolves and pumas, small smilodons and the occasional hungry griffin. But Roileé generally keeps them off, and if they’re persistent, whether out of deep hunger or ignorance or real stubbornness, I can usually make enough noise and fuss to drive them away.”

  “That old dog would face down a griffin?” Simna was disbelieving. “She hardly looks steady enough to make it to the nearest ridge top.”

  “Roileé may have lost a step or two, but she still has her bark, and she can still bite. I haven’t lost a lamb to a predator in twelve years.”

  The swordsman grunted. “Hoy, it just goes to show. Appearances can be deceiving for people. I guess it can be the same for dogs.” He scrunched deeper into the obliging back of the chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink? We’ve been a long time walking with nothing but water to sustain us.”

  “Of course, of course!” For the second time Coubert looked startled. “My manners—I am getting old.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, and not as far off as before. The storm was definitely moving in the direction of the solidly built little cottage.

  From an ice-chilled cabinet their elderly host brought out wine, and from a chest small metal goblets. Simna was disappointed in the limited capacity of the drinking utensils, but relaxed after their host set the bottle on the table and did not comment when refills were poured.

  “You must tell me.” Coubert had taken a seat on the hearth just to the left of the fire. “What are the sheep like in your country? Are they the same as mine, or very different?”

  Emitting a soft moan of despair, Simna poured himself a third glass of the excellent spirits and tried to shutter his ears as well as his mouth. Ehomba took up the question energetically, and the two men embarked on a discussion of sheep and sheep-raising, with an occasional aside to accommodate the dissimilar nature of cattle, that required the addition of several logs to the fire. Despite the steady cannonade of approaching heavy weather, Ahlitah was already submerged deep in cat sleep. With his abnormally long legs fully extended to front and rear, his paws nearly touched opposite walls of the cottage. With the assistance of more wine, Simna ibn Sind soon followed the imposing feline into similar latitudes of slumber.

  Coubert’s hospitality extended to his offering his guest the only bed. Ehomba would not hear of it.

  “Besides,” he told the oldster, “it has been my experience that the beds of more civilized people are too soft for me, and I would probably not sleep well in it. Better for me to remain here with my friends.” He pushed down on the cushion that was supporting him. “If this couch is also too soft, I assure you I will be very comfortable here on the floor, beside your excellent fire.” He glanced significantly upwards. “I think that tonight a strong roof will be the most important aid to sleep.”

  “I think you’re right, my friend.” With a kindly smile, their host tapped the bowl of his pipe against the stone mantel, knocking the contents into the fireplace. “Actually, it’s been pretty dry hereabouts lately. We could use a good rain.” Thunder echoed through the surrounding vales in counterpoint to his comment. “From the sound of it, we’re about to have some. I hope you sleep well, Etjole.”

  “Thank you, Lamidy.”

  After the old man had retired to the room behind the kitchen, closing the door gently behind him, Ehomba struggled to negotiate with the couch for reconciliation of his long frame. It took some twisting and turning, and his legs still dangled off the far end, but the final position he settled on was not an impossible one, and he felt he would be able to sleep. The soothing fire was a great help, and the profundo purring of the black litah a suitable if not entirely exact substitution for the soothing susurration of the small waves that curled and broke rhythmically on the shore beneath the village.

  He awoke to the peal of thunder and the flash of lightning. It revealed a world transformed into brief glimpses of stark black and white. Color returned only when the shocked purple faded from his sight, allowing him to see once again by the light of the dying fire. Ahlitah now reposed on his back with all four legs in the air, his massive skull lolling to one side, leaving him looking for all the world like a contented, spoiled tabby. That was one thing about cats, Ehomba knew: No matter how much they were scaled up in size, they all retained their essential, inherent catness.

  Simna lay slumped in the chair, quite unconscious and smelling strongly of the fruit of the vine. The earth could have opened beneath the cottage and the swordsman would have slept until he hit bottom.

  A second rumble rattled the room, leaving the herdsman more awake than ever. Rain tiptoed on the thatch and spilled in a succession of channeled bells off the roof to strike the compacted ground outside. Sleeping in the awkward position had left him with a cramp in his thighs. Grimacing, he swung his legs off the arm of the couch and onto the floor. He would walk off the cramp and then try to go back to sleep in a different position.

  In the dwindling firelight he paced back and forth between the couch and the kitchen, feeling the sensation return to his legs. It was on one such turn that he happened to glance out a window precisely when distant lightning flared. What he saw, or thought he saw, momentarily frozen in the stark dazzle, gave him pause.

  An uncertain frown on his face, he walked to the door and unlatched the top half. Cool, wet wind greeted him and blowing rain assailed his bare skin. He blinked it away, trying to penetrate the darkness. His eyes were sharp, his night vision acute, but he was no owl. Another flash of light, a boom of thunder close at hand, and his eyes finally confirmed what he had seen through the window a moment before. There could be no question about it.

  Yapping and barking excitedly with the strength of a much younger animal, darting back and forth with impossible swiftness, leaping higher into the air than any impala, Lamidy Coubert’s dog was herding the lightning.

  IX

  Wonderment writ large on his face, Ehomba stood in the half-open doorway, watching the implausible. It was enthralling to see the little long-haired dog cut off a bolt before it struck the ground, turning it with a stentorian yelp, cutting back and forth in front of the shimmering flash until it was penned back among the rocks with several others. They hovered there, flickering wildly, apparently unable to decide whether to strike the ground beneath them or recoil back up into the clouds. Like cornered livestock, they were waiting for directions from the supernal sheepdog.

  A fresh bolt attempted to slash at one of the garden fence posts. Anticipating its arrival, the dog flashed through the air faster than even Ehomba’s trained eye could follow. With a clashing of its jaws it snapped at the descending tip of the thunderbolt, sending it whipping sideways to slam harmlessly into an open, empty patch of ground.

  Tongue lolling, eyes bright and alert, the dog stood stolidly next to the garden awaiting the next lashing from the heavens. Then something made her turn, and she saw Ehomba standing in the doorway, staring. Sneezing once, she shook her head dog-style and trotted over to the pen of boulders to yap boisterously at the lightning trapped within. With a great concerted crash and roll the cornered bolts were sucked back up into the roiling clouds from whence they had come, to crackle and threaten no more.

  Satisfied, the old dog pivoted and came loping back toward the house. Halting beneath the overhanging lip of the thatched roof, she shook violently, sending water flying in every direction. Her long fur fluffed out, but
only partway. It would take more than a shake or two to dry out that thick mop of black and white. Slurping up her tongue, she considered the tall stranger watching her from the other side of the door.

  “Well,” she exclaimed in words of perfect inflection, “are you going to let me in so I can dry off, or do you mean to make me stand out here until I catch my death of cold?”

  “No.” Taking a step back, Ehomba opened the lower half of the door. “I would not want that.”

  She trotted past him and headed straight for the fire. Seeing that the somnolent Ahlitah occupied nearly all of the space before the glowing embers, she sighed and managed to find an unoccupied bit of floor between the big cat’s mountainous shoulder muscles and the hearth. There she lay down, breathing easily, and closed her eyes in a picture of fine canine contentment.

  Ehomba shut and latched both the upper and lower halves of the door against the wind and rain before walking over to sit down on the hearth opposite the sheepdog. “I have seen dogs work cattle, and I have seen them work antelope. I have even seen them work camels. But never before have I seen one work lightning.”

  Roileé wiped at her left eye with one paw before replying. “Lamidy has always been a good man, kind and caring. But he is getting old faster than I, and he cannot play as easily or as often as he used to. When I get bored, I have to find ways to entertain myself.” She nodded in the direction of the door. “Herding the lightning keeps my reflexes sharp.”

  “I would think that any dog that can herd lightning could handle even a large flock of sheep on one leg.”

  “Tut! Lightning is fast; sheep are tricky and, when they want to be, deliberately deceptive. As a herdsman yourself, you should know that.”

  “I spend most of my time with cattle. Cattle are not tricky.”