Into the Thinking Kingdoms

by Alan Dean Foster

  Something did.

  Beneath the constant attack of Ahlitah’s claws, the waterlogged wood of the secondary door not only gave way but collapsed completely. Simna felt himself sucked irresistibly forward. Flailing madly with hands and feet, he tried to maintain some semblance of control over his speedy exodus—to no avail. His right arm struck the doorjamb as he was wrenched through and a dull pain raced up his shoulder.

  Then he was coughing and sputtering in bright sunlight as he bobbed to the surface. After making sure that his sword and pack had come through with him, he looked around for his companions.

  Ehomba was rising and falling in the current like a long uprooted log. He waved and shouted back to Simna. The swordsman, he noted, was far more agile and confident on land than he was in the water, even though the torrent was slowing as it spread out on the rectory square. Just ahead of him, Ahlitah was already scrabbling for a foothold on the paving stones.

  Behind them, seawater continued to gush from the shattered doorway as if from an open faucet. Furniture, pieces of coving ripped from floors, sodden carpets, utensils, and the occasional gasping acolyte broke through the otherwise smooth surface of the flood. Screaming filled the air as stunned, startled citizens scrambled to escape the clutches of the saltwater river. Those who failed to move fast enough found themselves knocked off their feet and ignominiously swept down the street.

  Dragging themselves clear of the main flow, the travelers reassembled behind a walled mansion. As Ehomba and Simna checked their packs, they were drenched all over again when the litah chose that moment to shake itself vigorously. After a few choice words from the swordsman, they resumed their inspection.

  “Everything I own is soaked.” Grousing, he held up a package of dried mutton. “Ruined.”

  Ehomba was sorting through his own possessions. “We are not in the desert anymore. There will be places to buy food.” Rising, he looked around. “We need to find a source of fresh water and rinse everything out. If we do it quickly enough, some of the jerky should survive.”

  “That’s the last time I listen to you where officialdom is concerned.” The swordsman’s pack squished wetly as he slung it over his shoulders. “Next time we put up a fight instead of going quietly.” As they started down the deserted street, he looked back the way they had come. The torrent of salt water continued to gush unabated from the bowels of the rectory. “Sure is a lot of water. When will it stop?”

  “I do not know. I thought of the sea to try and keep my thinking to myself, and you see what followed. I do not know how it happened, or why, or how I did what I did.” He looked over at his companion. “Not knowing how I started it, I have no idea how to stop it. I am not thinking of the sea now, yet the water still flows.” Behind them, cries and the sounds of frantic splashing continued to fill the square around the rectory.

  Finding an unsullied public fountain, they removed everything from their packs and rinsed it all in the cool, clear fresh water to remove the salt. That task concluded, they did the same for their weapons to prevent the metal blades from corroding. Few citizens were about, most having locked themselves in their homes or places of business to hide from the intemperate sorcery. Everyone else had run to the rectory square to gawk at the new wonder. Gifted with this temporary solitude and shielded from casual view by Ahlitah’s bulk, the two men removed their clothes and washed them as well.

  “I feel as if I shall never be dry again.” The disgruntled swordsman struggled to drag his newly drenched shirt down over his head and shoulders.

  As Ehomba worked with his kilt he squinted up at the sky. “It is a warm day and the sun is still high. If we keep to the open places we should dry quickly enough.”

  “Hoy, we’ll keep to the open places, all right!” Picking up his sword, Simna slid it carefully back into its sodden sheath. “I’m not setting foot in another building until we’re clear of this benighted country. Imagine trying to control not what people think but the way they think. By Gwiswil, it’s outrageous!”

  “Yes,” Ehomba agreed as they started up the deserted street. “It is fortunate that the savants have to confront the unconverted in person. Think how frightful it would be if they had some sorcerous means of placing themselves before many people simultaneously. Of putting themselves into each citizen’s home or place of business and talking to many hundreds of subjects at once, and then using their magic to convince them to all think similarly.”

  Simna nodded somberly. “That would truly be the blackest of the black arts, bruther. We are fortunate to come from countries where such insidious fantasies are not contemplated.”

  His tall companion indicated agreement. “If the sheepherder’s description of the boundaries hereabouts was correct, we should be out of Tethspraih before midnight and thus beyond the reach of the guardians of right thinking.”

  “Can’t be soon enough for me.” Simna lengthened his stride. “My way of thinking may be skewed, or conflicted, or sometimes contradictory, but by Ghev, it’s my way of thinking.”

  “It is part of what makes you who and what you are.” Ehomba strode on, the bottom of his spear click-clacking on the pavement. “Myself, I cannot imagine thinking any differently than I do, than I always have.”

  “Personally, I think the guardians had the right concept but the wrong specifics.”

  Both men turned to the litah in surprise. Water continued to drip from the big cat’s saturated fur. “What are you saying?” Ehomba asked it.

  “The problem is not that men think wrongly. It’s that they think too much. This leads inevitably to too much talking.” Ahlitah left the import of his words hanging in the air.

  “Is the big pussy saying that we talk too much?” Simna retorted. “Is that what he’s saying? That we just babble on and on, with no reason and for no particular purpose, to hear ourselves jabber? Is that what he’s saying? Hoy, if that’s how he feels, maybe we should just shut up and never speak to him again. Maybe that’s what he’d like, for us not to say another word and—”

  Raising his free hand so that the palm faced the swordsman, Ehomba replied softly as they began to leave the urban center of Tethspraih behind. “I am not saying that I agree with him entirely, Simna, but perhaps it would be good if we measured out our words with a little more care and forethought.”

  “So most of it is waste? Most of what we say has no meaning, or makes no sense, or is of no use to anyone just because he thinks so? Our words are just so much noise hanging in the air, containing no more sense than the songs of the birds or the buzz of bees? What we speak is—”

  “Simna, my friend—be silent. For a little while, anyway.” Ehomba smiled encouragingly at the smaller man.

  “Then you do agree with him?” The irascible swordsman would not let the matter drop. “You think we do talk too much, about nothing of substance?”

  “Sorry, my friend.” Smiling apologetically, Ehomba pointed with his free hand to the side of his head. “My ears are still full of water, and I cannot hear you properly.”

  Simna had a ready reply, but decided to set it aside. Was the cursed cat smiling also? That was absurd. Cats could not smile. Yawn, snarl, tense—but not smile. Storing his rejoinder in an empty corner of his memory, he traipsed on in silence, knowing that he could summon it forth for delivery at a later time. He never did, of course.

  Both Ahlitah and Ehomba were counting on it.

  XII

  The country ruled over by the enlightened Count Tyrahnar Cresthelmare proved as welcoming and hospitable as Tethspraih had been treacherous. They were passed through the border gate by curious but cheerful guards, who assured the blunt, inquisitive Simna that in Phan not only would no one try to change his way of thinking, no one would give a damn what he thought.

  Never absent for very long in the worst of times, the spring returned to the swordsman’s step and the glint to his eye as they accepted a ride into Phan City from a farmer with a wagonload of hay. The city itself put even prosperous Tethspra
ih to shame. Not only were the buildings more impressive and the people more elegantly attired, but there was a definite and distinctive sense of style about the modest metropolis that exceeded anything the wide-eyed Ehomba had ever seen. The more worldly Simna, of course, was less impressed.

  “Nice little burg.” He was leaning back with his hands behind his head and using Ahlitah’s chest for a pillow. Rocked to sleep by the wagon’s motion, the big cat did not object. “Nothing like Creemac Carille, or Boh-yen, or Vloslo-on-the-Drenem, but it does have a certain dash.” He inhaled deeply, a contented expression on his face. “First sign of an upscale community, long bruther: The air doesn’t stink.”

  “I wonder if all these little kingdoms the sheepherder told us about are as prosperous as Tethspraih and Phan?” Ehomba was admiring the graceful people of many hues and their fine clothing. Here and there he even spotted an occasional ape, suggesting that the Phanese could boast of more cosmopolitan commercial connections than the more insular inhabitants of Tethspraih. Despite the ornate and even florid local manner of dressing, he was not made self-conscious by his own poor shirt, kilt, and sandals. It would never have occurred to Etjole Ehomba to be embarrassed by such a thing. While the Naumkib admired and even aspired to pleasing attire and personal decoration, not one of them would ever think of judging another person according to his or her appearance.

  “Off ye go, boys.” The hay farmer called back to them from his bench seat up front. “And be sure and see to it that great toothy black monster gets off with ye!”

  Digging his fingers deep into Ahlitah’s thick mane, Ehomba shook the cat several times until it blinked sleepy eyes at him. Rumbling deep in his throat, the litah took its own good time stretching, yawning, and stepping down from the back of the wagon. The farmer was not about to rush the operation and, for that matter, neither was the herdsman. No matter how friendly and affectionate when awake, a cat half asleep was always potentially dangerous.

  Taking note of the oversized feline, a few stylishly outfitted pedestrians spent time staring in his direction. But no one panicked, or looked down their nose at the tired, sweaty travelers, or whispered snide comments under their breath. Ehomba’s excellent hearing told him this was so, and in response to his query, Ahlitah confirmed it.

  “This seems to be an unusually cultivated clustering of humans,” the big cat commented. “One even remarked on how handsome and imposing was I.”

  “Evidently all their intelligence has gone into design.” Hands on hips, Simna stood in the center of the street surveying their surroundings. A middle-aged man on horseback came trotting past and barely glanced in their direction. While the swordsman admired his flowing green cape, Ehomba noted with interest the schematics of the leather and brass tack, and Ahlitah lowered his gaze and growled deep in his throat at the nearness of so much easy meat. Luckily for the rider’s ride, his mount did not meet the big cat’s eyes.

  “We need to find some sort of general trading house or store where we can replenish our supplies.” Reaching around to pat his pack, Simna grinned affably. “One thing about gold: Not much hurts it. Not even seawater.”

  “I thought your purse was drained.” Ehomba eyed his friend uncertainly.

  The swordsman was not in the least embarrassed. “I didn’t tell you everything, Etjole. I was keeping some in reserve, for myself. But”—he shrugged resignedly—“where I go so goes my belly, and right now it’s more empty than my purse. I imagine it’s the same with you.”

  Ehomba gestured diffidently. “I can go a long time without food.”

  “Hoy, but why should you?” Simna put a comradely arm around the tall man’s shoulders. “Take food when and where you can, says I. By the look of this place, whatever we purchase here will be fresh and of good quality. Who knows what the next port of call may bring? To a general store for victuals and then, onward to Hamacassar!”

  Ehomba followed his friend across the street. “Why Simna, you sound almost enthusiastic.”

  The swordsman responded to the observation with a hearty smile. “It’s my way of concealing desperate impatience. But I’m not really worried, because I know that the treasure that lies at the end of this quest will be well worth all the time and effort and hardships.”

  Ehomba thought of Roileé the witch dog’s prediction, which echoed Rael the Beautiful’s prediction. “I hope so, friend Simna.”

  Citizens gave them directions to a high-ceilinged establishment several blocks distant. Immediately upon entering it, Simna knew they had been guided to the right place. Larger goods were stacked in the center of the wooden-plank floor, while on either side shelves and compartments filled with smaller articles rose to a height of nearly two stories. Like bees probing flowers for honey, young boys on rolling ladders slid back and forth along these walls, picking out requested items in response to sharply barked orders from busy attendants below. At the far end of the single long room was a small bar fronting a handful of tables and chairs at which habitual denizens of the store’s depths sat chatting, drinking, and smoking.

  Polite customers made room for the travelers to pass. Or perhaps they were simply getting out of the litah’s way. As it always did in the presence of so many humans, the big cat kept its massive head down and eyes mostly averted. This premeditated posture of specious submission went a long way toward alleviating the concerns of old men, and women with young children in tow.

  While Simna shopped, Ehomba pestered the clerks with question after question. So much of what he saw on the shelves was new and wonderful to him. There were small mechanical devices of intricate design, and brightly dyed fabrics and household items. Much of the prepackaged food was outside his experience, and an exasperated Simna was obliged on repeated occasions to explain the nature of foreign imports and exoticisms.

  When they had accomplished what they had come for, and finalized their purchases, a dour Simna held the last of the Chlengguu gold in one hand and counted the pieces that remained to them. “I’d thought not to retire on this, but to at least make myself comfortable for a while. Now it seems there won’t even be enough to last out our journey.”

  “Be of good cheer, friend Simna.” Ehomba put a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Gold is only as good as the purpose it serves.”

  “I can think of a few I’d like to have served.” The swordsman exhaled tiredly. “We have enough for a drink or two, anyway.” He nodded at the patient Ahlitah. “Even the cat can have a drink.”

  “A pan of water will suffice, thank you.” His fur having finally dried out, the litah had regained his last absent iota of dignity. Content, he made himself regally comfortable in a rear corner, much to the relief of the regular patrons of the limited drinking area.

  Taking seats in finely made chairs of wicker and cloth, the two travelers luxuriated in the comfort of drinks with actual ice. This striking and unexpected phenomenon so intrigued Ehomba that he insisted they linger over their refreshment. Those seated in their immediate vicinity proved willing listeners to their tales of travels in far-off lands. Expanding in his element, Simna proceeded to embroider the truth and fill in the gaps with extemporaneous invention. Whenever the swordsman would unload a particularly egregious fiction on the audience of rapt listeners, Ehomba would throw him a disapproving frown. These his loquacious companion would studiously ignore. Meanwhile, snug in his corner, Ahlitah slumbered on.

  In this manner, plied with cold drinks by an eager and attentive audience, they passed not only the rest of the afternoon but a good portion of the early evening. Eventually though, it appeared that even Simna ibn Sind’s fertile narrative was beginning to pale as their once fervent fans began to drift away and out of the store in ones and twos, taking their day’s purchases with them.

  At last it was pitch dark outside, and their audience had been reduced to two: a pair of husky, bearded manual laborers of approximately the same age as the travelers themselves. Their manner of departure, however, was as unforeseen as it was abrupt.<
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  Catching sight of the blackened street just visible through the distant main entrance, the slightly smaller of the two rose suddenly. His eyes were wide as he clutched at his still seated companion’s shoulder.

  “Nadoun! Look outside!”

  The other man’s jaw dropped. He whirled to glare at the man behind the compact bar. That worthy spoke solemnly as he finished putting up the last of his glassware.

  “That’s right. Ye lads best get a move on or you’ll have to make your way home—after.”

  “Why did ye not warn us?” The first man’s tone was strained and accusatory.

  This time the proprietor looked up from his work. “Ye be grown men. I am a tradesman, not a baby-sitter.”

  Were it not for the terrified expressions on their faces, it would have been comical to watch the two men fight frantically to don their fine evening jackets and flee the general store. The shorter of the two flung a handful of money at the proprietor, not bothering either to count it or wait for his change.

  Smacking his lips, Simna set his goblet down on the table in front of him and inquired casually of the shopkeeper as he knelt to pick the scattered coins off the floor, “What was that all about?”

  The heavyset merchant sported a florid black mustache that curled upwards at the ends. It contrasted starkly with his gleaming pate, which was as devoid of hair as a ceramic mixing bowl. Perhaps in compensation, his eyebrows were ferocious.

  “You don’t know?” Straightening, he let the fruits of his coin gathering tumble into the commodious front pocket of his rough cotton apron. “You really don’t, do ye?”