Zan had no fear of these constructions of the imagination, but he worried about the effect they might have on his companions, who were already exchanging apprehensive words. But Dael, exultant, was almost trembling with joy. “Yes,” he cried, “these walls of rock speak the truth! Death is here and death is there. The very stones proclaim it! The valley will run red with blood like this unnatural river. Let us drink from it now in anticipation of our triumph and their destruction.” Oin and Orah forced themselves to smile. Pax looked at Zan, and Zan looked with fear, not at the skulls, but at his brother.
4
THE
HIVE
After a night’s rest in the cave-like hollow, which was the mouth of the “skull,” they were on their way. The great distances gradually were left behind. It proved easier, safer, and even faster to travel in a group. Zan knew exactly where to go as they approached the mountainous region that was the wasp people’s abode. A pair of foothills somewhat separated from the others told him the path.
Rydl was both desirous and reluctant to return to his home. He had been away for several years, and longed to see his father and visit his mother’s grave (although he never knew her alive). His departure from home had been sudden. An atmosphere of suspicion made it dangerous for him to stay, for he had once helped Zan-Gah, an enemy, and his father had guessed as much. If he now returned with Zan and other strangers, the suspicion would be confirmed and his life would be in danger. Rydl decided to stay back a little distance for a while.
“Why don’t you keep company with the great booby who has been dogging our steps all this time?” Dael suggested, casting a thumb over his shoulder. Dael alone had noticed that Chul was following them, and now brought the fact to the attention of the group. Finally seeing Chul, who perceived that he had been spotted, Rydl decided to act on Dael’s advice and ran to join the blushing giant. Chul and Rydl camped separately and built a fire while the others went forward toward the bluish hills.
Arriving at a clear space, Zan suddenly recognized the red tower of stone that looked so curiously like his brother that, at a distance, he had once called out to it. The sculptured rock was like the skulls of the red cliffs: one saw something that was not there. Yet, how much Dael resembled (not only physically!) that unfeeling column—rigid and unyielding, hard—and how different it was from what Dael formerly had been!
It was just at that moment, as Zan was ruefully recalling how he once had mistaken the stone pile for his missing brother, that he smelled a faint odor, which would become more prominent as the group advanced. Wafted by the wind was the sickening smell of a dead animal, and before long it was as if the whole region were infected. A shift of the breeze took the odor away again, only to bring it back a while later with increased strength and foulness. Chul and Rydl, who had changed their minds after eating and decided to catch up with the others, noticed it too. Chul possessed a keen nose, and had detected the smell even the night before.
They came together as they reached a point above the dwellings of the wasp people. Silently and with great caution, the band climbed the ridge overlooking that glorious region which Zan called the Beautiful Country. Zan, Pax, and Rydl, the only ones among them who had any sense of beauty, drank in the loveliness of the land. Beyond the neatly arranged huts the trees were already in bloom, reflected in the mirror surface of the pure and ever-freshening lake; while in the distance a stream fell from a great height to replenish it. Then, even as they gazed in wonder at the gratifying sight, the wind shifted, and the smell was there again, fouling for one sense what was fair to another—a putrid odor, fetid and unwholesome. Chul snorted like a bull. Dael knew the smell (although he would not say whence his knowledge came), and seemed even to welcome the stench of death—for death it had to be. Somewhere nearby there were rotting corpses—but whose?
The wasp people, Zan recalled (for he had been their captive many months), had no feeling for the beauty of their land—only for its richness and ease of gathering. He knew, however, that they abhorred rotten meat, and would not tolerate its presence. But where were they? Their huts were intact on the ground, and their hive-like nests hung undisturbed from the lofty branches above. Rydl said that something was wrong, and Zan feared a trap. Perhaps their sentinels had spotted the band and were lying in wait until the invaders approached too near for escape. Then they would swarm out of their nests and it would all be over.
Dael was readying his spear with its blade of flint. Zan could see that it would be difficult to hold him back for very long, and wished he could tie him to a tree for his own safety.
Something had to be done to resolve them of the situation, so Zan threw a stone, which made a rattling noise.
There was no response.
Creeping closer, with his friends directly behind, he threw a larger one at the closest of the huts. These were bulbous, hive-like structures built of branches sealed with tar, and covered with bark and leaves. Standing up, Zan flung a rock with his powerful sling directly into the round door of the hollow hive.
Nothing.
There were no fires or any sign of life at all. And still the fetid, loathsome odor assailed their nostrils.
Zan urged his companions to watch and wait. Best to be cautious. But after a long hour spent observing the lifeless scene—a period of complete silence—Dael could be restrained no longer. Ignoring the others and his own safety, he rushed forward with a wild yell and plunged his spear into the wasp-hut as though it were a living creature.
The rest of the group had no choice but to charge on the run to second Dael’s attack. There could be no hiding any more; it was fight or flee. Chul, in the forefront, brandished his spear and roared like a wild animal. But the wasp warriors made no answer. The continuing silence made it plain at last that, wherever the wasp people were, they were not there. Men, women, and children—all were gone. No movement whatever disturbed the quietude, except for a dusty wind brushing against the rough, dry walls of the forsaken village.
The largest of the huts was the regal seat of their mightiest elder. Jaga was his name. Zan remembered him well—intelligent, quick, and savage as any wild man. Once, during the period of Zan’s internment there, Jaga had detected a note of rebellion in his younger brother’s voice. Quick as lightning, he had struck the youth with his club. He then flung the body into a fire to roast as a charred example to any who might attempt to defy him. That was the sort of man he was. Many hated him; all feared him—and obeyed without question. Not one dared to utter a word of protest against the barbaric murder.
How often Zan had done Jaga and his large family a slave’s service when he had been their captive! Where were they now? Zan resolved to enter the soundless hut, slowly, cautiously. Little was visible within until Zan’s eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, but the overpowering odor nearly felled him. Holding his nose, he gradually made something out by the sparks of bright light penetrating a few cracks in the nest’s structure.
It was the most ghastly sight he ever had seen. The earthen floor was strewn with decaying corpses. Rotting and shriveled bodies were everywhere, swarming with flies. And seated on his throne of power was the corpse of Jaga, still erect in the place of honor reserved for a chief. His once imperial face and vigorous body were now horribly desiccated, his skull eyeless, and his mouth wide open to reveal ivory teeth ringing the dark putrescence. He still wore his beautiful fur pelt, and held in his skeleton grip the scepter spear that marked him for command. Even in death, Zan thought, Jaga would not relinquish his authority. Despite the horrible change that death had made, Zan could still recognize his kingly features, and even whispered his name: “Jaga?” In answer, a swarm of wasps issued from Jaga’s throat and hovered around what once had been his not unhandsome face.
Zan turned to flee, and received another shock. Silhouetted against the light of the oval opening and barring his exit was the startling apparition of an old woman. So haggard, grotesque, and emaciated she was, and so sudden was her appearance, that Za
n jumped when she spoke and, for a moment, the hairs stood up on his head.
“Who are you, and how do you dare to disturb this place of death?” she demanded. She looked as if she herself might have risen from the number of decaying corpses, coming back to life to confront the young intruder. Her hoarse words, which seemed fashioned from a gust of wind, were in the wasp men’s language, which Zan had learned during his captivity there.
“I am Zan-Gah. I have returned to visit this country and…”
“Oh ho, the dumb boy speaks!” The woman recognized Zan as their “idiot” slave of former days. Zan had played that part well when his survival made it necessary. The hag disgorged a dry, cackling laugh. Zan knew her. It was Hurnoa, a once prominent woman of the tribe, who had defended him from Naz, his sadistic guard. Although Zan had been compelled to serve her, he remembered Hurnoa as a just and even kind supervisor. How horribly was she changed! Where once she had been plump and prosperous, she was now stooped and gaunt, her skeleton more prominent than the dried flesh affixed to it. Her once strong and capable hands resembled the roots of unearthed trees, and her former ringing and authoritative voice was as shriveled as her visage. The thick ebony hair had become as white as ashes and so thin that it scarcely covered her scalp. No trace of her former dignity remained. Zan gazed at her almost in horror.
“What…has…happened here?” Zan demanded at last, ushering the old woman into the bright open light. Zan’s band, surprised that anyone was there at all, gaped at her as though she were a freak of nature. Chul averted his nose, and Dael marked her with cruel eyes, readying his spear. Pax and Rydl moved closer to Zan, while Oin and Orah huddled behind Dael for protection.
But Hurnoa would present no threat. Weakened by sickness, starvation, and an evident weariness of life, she sat down on the dusty ground. A bonfire once had burned in the very spot she chose, and scattered relics of the long-extinct blaze remained. Hurnoa sat among the ashes. The others sat too, forming a ring around her.
5
“WHAT
HAPPENED?”
“Yes, young man, I remember you well,” she continued in her fractured voice. The gleam in her eyes belied her withered face and body. “I knew you were not the dumb ape you pretended to be, but I held my tongue lest you be chopped to pieces. And you did well to hold yours. Your mind seemed as barren as our western desert, and no one among us feared you.”
Zan repeated his question: “What happened?”
Hurnoa paused to assemble her thoughts. Zan’s simple question was almost more than she could bear. She looked at the ground and seemed to visibly shrink as she meditated her answer. At last, speaking as if to herself while still looking at the earth, she sighed, “I do not know why the gods decided to destroy us. They began by making us furious, then crazy, then sickened and sick to death. Do you see our hives in the trees above? Every one contains dead bodies. No person has survived. Not one—saving myself.”
“What, not one?” Rydl exclaimed, and his mouth went dry. He tried to absorb what her words meant. “Not one? What has done this?” He thought of his father whom he both feared and missed. He would never see him after all, nor make peace with him.
Zan was translating to the group. Dael listened, but was too baffled to speak. Things were not falling out as he had planned!
Hurnoa continued, more conscious of her audience: “The land we inhabit is rich. Look around you! Game, fish, and fruits are everywhere. We had no needs. No people were as prosperous as we, and we were so strong that no one dared to attack us. But men are makers of mischief.” Hurnoa’s exhausted and haggard look became still wearier, and her face more deeply entrenched as she proceeded, until she looked as if she might wither away entirely. “Our clans despised one another and fought on any pretext, while the women cowered—always fearful of murder or abduction. Our children were not safe either. They might disappear at any time, never to be seen again. And so the sweetness of our land was ever turned sour by its inhabitants.
“Jaga, our chief, had three brothers (tall, handsome men!) whom he sought to make chieftains over the other clans. To this end he was always plotting, and when the youngest declared that he did not wish to rule over unwilling subjects, Jaga struck him dead with his club. No one should dare, he said, to challenge his decisions instead of obeying. I can still see the comely young body roasting on the fire! The day afterwards, Jaga was weeping and roaring over his deed. He had power over all—except himself. And so he wept, but the dead cannot be brought back to life.
“Later, Jaga engendered a plan to unite our clans under his rule by making war elsewhere (it mattered not where) with himself as leader. The idea of battle makes men crazy, and they who were at each other’s throats at that very time diverted their thoughts to a great invasion. Almost at once the warriors were beating their shields with their spears and shouting the name of Jaga! Jaga! as if he were their greatest friend—he who never felt a moment’s sympathy for them. Did they think, once victorious in war, that Jaga would prove a kind ruler—the monster who had murdered his own brother?” Hurnoa, sickly and weak, paused to catch her breath. Zan was translating her words as well as he could.
“Jaga’s target was the people of the east, beyond the great cleft in the earth—your people. We told ourselves that you were inferior and only fit to be slaves, and that victory with our poisoned weapons was a certainty. How eagerly the men readied themselves for battle!” Hurnoa closed her eyes for a moment, too pained to continue, and slowly shook her head. “What devil is it that makes men prefer war to peace?” she inquired, more of herself than her audience. “Maybe life was too easy! Men who do not have to struggle in order to eat, men with idle time and over-abundant energy, turn their minds to war and conquest. I don’t know why. And yet we, the attackers, needed nothing that your people had. And you were far away! Why should we seek you? Our minds were sick before our bodies were.”
Zan urged the old woman to eat something from his supplies and resume her tale after she felt stronger. But she could hardly chew the coarse food Zan gave her, and soon put it aside. After a while she continued unbidden: “Jaga led an army of our warriors, eager for battle and thinking themselves invulnerable; and a single man overthrew the entire attack! We were told he was a giant. Perhaps it was that huge fellow you have with you.” She pointed a bony finger at Chul. “He hurled down the bridge spanning the abyss, cutting off our forces and sending them home unsatisfied.”
“Yes,” Chul responded, wiping his nose with his hairy fist. “I sent them home, and I wish they had stayed there. I have other things to do besides fighting and killing wild men.” Hurnoa did not understand his words, only the gruffness of his tone.
“What vexation and rage they brought back with them! Eager for war, they could only war on each other. The alliance fell apart more quickly than it was formed, and Jaga, who was blamed for everything, had to surround himself with armed guards to prevent his assassination.
“Jaga was beaten for a time, but Crawf, the oldest of his brothers, began to buzz about. His plan was to bring the warriors together under his leadership by promising a new, successful campaign. Jaga was not happy with his brother’s ambition, but decided to allow him to build the alliance with the intention (I am sure) of getting rid of him after he had done the work of war. But the gods had other plans.
“You know yourself, young man, that at the time you served us we encountered a new, invisible enemy—an evil spirit against whom we were helpless. We sent you away because it was thought that you were the demon, but we discovered otherwise. This spirit rode on every breeze, and if it touched you in the morning, you would be dead by the next evening! Your face, arms, and legs felt as if they were on fire, and before long blood issued from your nose and eyes, and every part of your body. With convulsions and hoarse cries, each victim would grapple with the demon. The swelling was terribly painful, and so disfiguring that members of your own family could hardly recognize you. But before long your agonies would be over, and you
r family’s too! We soon learned—although not soon enough—that the spirit visited anyone who touched the dying. We could hardly dispose of the corpses, and this dreadful smell came to keep the injurious spirit company.
“One of the elders said that the evil came upon us because we were cowards, slow to resume the battle; and the men, both frightened and furious, and anxious to get away from the curse, were more eager to fight than ever. Not many returned, and those who did found death in every hive. But even so desolated, there were those who wanted to seize power from Jaga—who himself was powerless to overcome what had befallen us.
“The bad spirit went away for a time, and the warriors broke into a number of shifting friendships and plotting alliances. The war had not done enough damage! The plague had not left enough stinking bodies! They decided to make more! Elders were killed in their beds and families fought against their own clans, so that corpses were everywhere. The young men were emboldened, and held secret councils. Jaga’s enemies could not get at him because he was guarded night and day; so they killed his brothers. Madness! Jaga never hungered for revenge nor plotted its fulfillment with such driving energy! But it came to nothing. Within three days of his brothers’ murders the death-tokens appeared, and by the time five days had passed, Jaga and most of his guard were breathed down by the spirit. You saw their corpses just now.
“The ill spirit has finished its work. I do not know why it left me alive to look on nothing but the dead. My family and my people all have perished. I wish I could die too.” Tears were making their way down Hurnoa’s shrunken cheeks.
Zan-Gah and the Beautiful Country Page 3