Helliconia Spring h-1

by Brian Aldiss

  Grumbling and cursing, wrapped figures made their way through the murk to the big tower. A chill wind raged from the east, whistling between the ancient towers, slamming into their faces and conjuring rime on their bearded lips. Seven o’clock of a spring evening, and blackest night.

  Once they got inside the tower, they jammed the rickety wooden door behind them, straightened up, and exclaimed. Then they mounted the stone steps that led to Aoz Roon’s room. This room was warmed by the hot water flowing through the stone pipes in the basement. Upper rooms towards the top of the tower, where Aoz Roon’s slaves and some of his hunters slept, were farther from the heat source, and consequently colder. But tonight the wind, squirrelling in through a thousand cracks, made everything icy.

  Aoz Roon was holding his first council as Lord of Oldorando.

  Last to arrive was old Master Datnil Skar, head of the tawyers and tanners corps. He was also the oldest person present. He came slowly up into the light, looking cautiously, half wary of a trap. The old are always suspicious of changes in government. Two candles burned in pots in the centre of a floor luxuriously covered with skins. Their ragged flames slanted towards the west, in which direction two pennants of smoke trailed.

  By the uncertain light of the candles, Master Datnil saw Aoz Roon, seated on a wooden chair, and nine other people, squatting on the skins. Six of them were the masters of the other six makers corps, and to them he bowed individually after a courtesy towards Aoz Roon. The other two men were the hunters Dathka and Laintal Ay, sitting together rather defensively. Datnil Skar disliked Dathka for the simple reason that the lad had quit his corps for the feckless life of a hunter; such was Datnil Skar’s opinion; and he also disliked Dathka’s habit of silence.

  The only female present was Oyre, who kept her dark gaze fixed uneasily on the floor. She sat partly behind her father’s chair, so as to remain in the shadows that danced against the wall.

  All these faces were familiar to the old master, as were the more spectral ones ranged on the walls below the beams—the skulls of phagors and other enemies of the hamlet.

  Master Datnil seated himself on a rug on the floor next to his fellow corpsmen. Aoz Roon clapped his hands, and a slave woman came down from the floor above, carrying a tray on which were a jug and eleven carved wooden cups; Master Datnil realised when a measure of rathel was handed to him that the cups had once belonged to Wall Ein.

  “You are welcome,” Aoz Roon said loudly, lifting his cup. All drank the sweet cloudy liquid.

  Aoz Roon spoke. He said that he intended to rule with more firmness than his predecessors. He would tolerate no lawlessness. He would consult the council as before, the council to consist as before of the masters of the seven makers corps. He would defend Oldorando against all enemies. He would not let women or slaves interfere with decent life. He would guarantee that nobody would starve. He would permit people to consult their gossies when they wished. He thought the academy a waste of time when the women had work to do.

  Most of what he said was meaningless, or meant only that he intended to rule. He spoke, it could not but be noted, in a peculiar way, as if he wrestled with demons. His eyes often stared, he clutched the arms of his chair as if he was struggling with an inward torment. So that although his remarks were themselves inconsequential, the manner of delivery was horrifyingly original. The wind whistled and his voice rose and fell.

  “Laintal Ay and Dathka will be my chief officers, and see my orders are carried out. They’re young and sensible. All right, damn it, that’s enough talk.”

  But the master of the brewers’ corps interrupted in a firm voice, saying, “My Lord, you move too fast for those of us with slow wits. Some of us might like to ponder on why you appoint as your lieutenants two saplings, when we have men of oak about us who would serve better.”

  “I’ve made my choice,” said Aoz Roon, rubbing his trunk to and fro against the back of his chair.

  “But perhaps you have made it too fast, sire. Consider how many good men we have … what of your own generation, such as Eline Tal and Tanth Ein?”

  Aoz Roon brought his fist down on the chair arm. “We need youth, action. That’s my choice. Now you may go, all of you.”

  Datnil Skar rose slowly, and said, “My Lord, forgive me, but such hasty dismissal damages your merit, not ours. Are you ill, are you in pain?”

  “Eddre, man, go, can’t you, when asked? Oyre—”

  “The custom is for your council of masters to drink to you, to toast your reign, sire.”

  The gaze of the Lord of Embruddock rolled up to the beams and down again.

  “Master Datnil, I know you old men are short of breath and long on words. Spare me. Go, will you, before I have you replaced too. Away, all of you, my thanks, but go, away into this beastly weather.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” He groaned and clutched himself.

  A surly dismissal, and the old men of the council departed muttering, blowing out their toothless cheeks in indignation. Not a good omen… Laintal Ay and Dathka left, shaking their heads.

  As soon as he was alone with his daughter, Aoz Roon fell on the floor and rolled about, groaning, kicking, and scratching himself.

  “Did you bring that medicated goose fat from Mistress Datnil, girl?” he asked his daughter.

  “Yes, Father.” Oyre produced a leather box containing a soft hunk of grease.

  “You’re going to have to rub it on my body.”

  “I can’t do that, Father.”

  “Of course you can, and you will.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I will not do it. You heard what I said. Get your slave woman to do it. That’s what she’s for, isn’t it? Or else I’ll get Rol Sakil.”

  He jumped up, snarling, and took hold of her. “You’ll do it. I can’t afford to let anyone else see my state, or word will spread. They’ll find out, don’t you see? You’ll do it, damn you, or I’ll break your eddring neck. You’re as difficult as Shay Tal.”

  When she whimpered, he said, with fresh anger, “Close your eyes if you’re so squeamish, do it with your eyes shut. You don’t have to look. But do it fast, before I go out of my harneys.”

  As he began to strip himself of his skins, still with madness in his look, he said, “And you will be spliced to Laintal Ay, to keep you both quiet. I want no argument. I’ve seen the looks he gives you. It’ll be your turn one day to rule Oldorando.”

  Off came his trousers, and he stood there naked in front of her. She closed her eyes tightly, turning away her face, sick with disgust at this humiliation. Yet she could not shut out the sight of that hard, spare hairless body, which seemed to writhe under its skin. Her father was covered to his throat with scarlet flames.

  “Get on with it, you great silly fillock! I’m in agony, damn you, I’m dying.”

  She reached out a hand and began to plaster the sticky lard across his chest and stomach.

  Afterwards, Oyre fled from him, spitting curses, and ran from the building, to stand with her face turned to the chill wind, retching with disgust.

  Such were the early days of her father’s reign.

  A group of Madis lay in their shapeless clothes, sleeping uneasily. They rested in a broken valley trackless miles from Oldorando. Their sentry dozed.

  Walls of schist surrounded them. Under the onslaughts of frost, the rock broke into thin layers which crunched underfoot. There was no vegetation, except for an occasional stunted holly bush, the leaves of which were too bitter even for the omnivorous arang to eat.

  The Madis had been caught in a thick mist which frequently descended on these uplands. Night had come and they had remained dispiritedly where they were. Batalix-rise had already visited the world, but dark and mist still reigned in the cold cleft of the canyon, and the protognostics still slumbered uneasily.

  The young kzahhn’s crusade commander, Yohl-Gharr Wyrrijk, stood on an eminence some feet above them, watching as a mixed party of warrior gillots and creaghts under his orders crep
t up on the defenceless group.

  Ten adult Madis made up the company crouched in the obscurity. They had with them a baby and three children. Beside them were seventeen arangs, sturdy goatlike animals with thick coats which provided most of the humble needs of the nomads.

  This family of Madis was institutionally promiscuous. The exigencies of their existence were such that mating took place indiscriminately; nor were there any tabus against incest. Their bodies lay pressed together to conserve heat, while their horned animals crawled in close against them, forming a kind of outer ring of defence against the bone-numbing cold. Only the sentry was outside this circle, and he lay innocently with his head resting on the pelage of one of the arangs. The protognostics had no weapons. Their one defence was flight.

  They had relied on the mist for protection. But the sharp eyes of the phagors had found them out. The extreme difficulty of the terrain had cut Yohl-Gharr Wyrrijk off temporarily from the main body of Hrr-Brahl Yprt’s command. His warriors were almost as starved as the pre-humans upon whom they were descending.

  They bore clubs or spears. The crunch of their approach over the beds of schist was covered by the snores and snuffles of the Madis. A few more steps. The sentry woke from a dream and sat up, full of terror. Through the dank mist, ugly figures emerged like ghosts. He gave a cry. His companions stirred. Too late. With savage cries, the phagors attacked, striking without mercy.

  In almost no time, all the protognostics were dead, and their little flock with them. They had become protein for the crusade of the young kzahhn. Yohl-Gharr Wyrrijk climbed down from his rock to give orders for its distribution.

  Through the mist, Batalix arose, a dull red ball, and peered into the desolate canyon.

  It was the Year 361 After Small Apotheosis of Great Year 5,634,000 Since Catastrophe. The crusade had now been eight years on its way. In five more years, it would arrive at the city of the Sons of Freyr which was its destination. But as yet no human eye could see the connection between the fate of Oldorando and what happened in a remote and leafless canyon.

  VII • A COLD WELCOME FOR PHAGORS

  “Lord or not, he’ll have to come to me,” Shay Tal said to Vry proudly, when in a still dimday they could not sleep.

  But the new Lord of Embruddock also had his pride, and did not come.

  His rule proved neither better nor worse than the previous one. He remained at odds with his council for one reason and with his young lieutenants for another.

  Council and lord agreed where they could for the sake of a peaceful life; and one matter on which they could agree without inconvenience to themselves was on the subject of the troublesome academy. Discontent must not be allowed to breed. Needing the women to work communally, they could not forbid them to gather together, and so the prohibition was useless. Yet they did not revoke it—and that vexed the women.

  Shay Tal and Vry met privately with Laintal Ay and Dathka.

  “You understand what we’re trying to do,” Shay Tal said. “You persuade that stubborn man to change his mind. You are closer to him than I can manage.”

  All that came of this meeting was that Dathka started making eyes at the reticent Vry. And Shay Tal became slightly more haughty.

  Laintal Ay returned later from one of his solitary expeditions and sought Shay Tal out. Covered with mud, he squatted outside the women’s house until she emerged from the boilery.

  When she appeared, she had with her two slaves bearing trays of fresh loaves. Vry walked in a docile way behind the slaves. Once more, Oldorando’s bread was ready, and Vry set off to supervise its distribution—though not before Shay Tal had snatched a spare loaf for Laintal Ay. She gave it to him, smiling and throwing back her unruly hair.

  He munched gratefully, stamping his feet to warm them.

  Milder weather, like the new lord, had proved more a convulsion than an actual progression. Now it was cold again, and the moisture beading Shay Tal’s dark eyelashes froze. All about, white stillness prevailed. The river still flowed, broad and dark, but its banks were fanged by icicles.

  “How’s my young lieutenant? I see less of you these days.”

  He swallowed down the last of the loaf, his first food in three days.

  “Hunting has been difficult. We’ve had to travel far afield. Now that it’s colder again, the deer may move nearer home.”

  He stood alertly, surveying her as she stood before him in her ill-fitting furs. In her coiled quietness was the quality that made people admire and stand back from her. He perceived before she spoke that she saw through his excuse.

  “I think much of you, Laintal Ay, as I did of your mother. Remember your mother’s wisdom. Remember her example, and don’t turn against the academy, like some of your friends.”

  “You know how Aoz Roon admires you,” he blurted out.

  “I know the way he has of showing it.”

  Seeing that he was disconcerted, she was more kind, and took his arm, walking with him, asking him where he had been. He glanced now and again at her sharp profile as he told her of a ruined village he had visited in the wilds. It lay half buried among boulders, its deserted streets like dried streambeds, fringed with roofless houses. All its wooden parts had been taken or had rotted away. Stone staircases ascended to floors that had long since disappeared, windows opened on prospects of tumbled rock. Toadstools grew in the doorsteps, driven snow accumulated in the fireplaces, birds made their nests in flaking alcoves.

  “It’s part of the disaster,” said Shay Tal.

  “It’s what happens,” he said innocently, and went on to tell of a small party of phagors he had stumbled across—not military ones, but humble fungusmongers, who had been as scared of him as he of them.

  “You risk your life so needlessly.”

  “I need to … I need to get away.”

  “I have never left Oldorando. I must, I must—I want to get away as you do. I’m imprisoned. But I tell myself we are all prisoners.”

  “I don’t see that, Shay Tal.”

  “You will see. First, fate moulds our character; then character moulds our fate. Enough of that—you’re too young.”

  “I’m not too young to help you. You know why the academy is feared. It may upset the smooth running of life. But you tell us that knowledge will contribute to a general good, isn’t that right?”

  He regarded her half-smilingly, half-mockingly, and she thought, gazing back into his eyes, Yes, I understand how Oyre feels about you. She assented with an inclination of her head, smiling in return.

  “Then you need to prove your case.”

  She raised a fine eyebrow and said nothing. He lifted his hand and uncurled his dirty fingers before her eyes. In his palm lay the ears of two grasses, one with seeds arranged in delicate bells, the other shaped like a miniature teazle.

  “Well, ma’am, can the academy pronounce upon these, and name them?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “They are oats and rye, aren’t they?” She searched in her mental store of folk wisdom. “They were once a part of—farming.”

  “I picked them beside the broken village, growing wild. There may have been fields of them once—before your catastrophe… There are other strange plants, too, climbing against the ruins in sheltered spots. You can make good bread with these grains. Deer like them—when the grazing’s good, the does will choose the oats and leave the rye.”

  As he transferred the green things to her hands, she felt the rasp of the rye’s beard against her skin. “So why did you bring them to me?”

  “Make us better bread. You have a way with loaves. Improve the bread. Prove to everyone that knowledge contributes to the general good. Then the ban on the academy will be lifted.”

  “You are very thoughtful,” she said. “A special person.”

  The praise embarrassed him. “Oh, many plants are springing up in the wilderness which can be used to benefit us.”

  As he made to go, she said, “Oyre is very moody nowadays. What is trou
bling her?”

  “You are wise—I thought you would know.”

  Clutching the green seeds, she hitched her skins about her body and said warmly, “Come and talk to me more often. Don’t disregard my love for you.”

  He smiled awkwardly and turned away. He was unable to express to Shay Tal or anyone else how witnessing the murder of Nahkri had clouded his life. Fools though they were, Nahkri and Klils were his uncles and had enjoyed life. The horror would not go away, though two years had passed. He also guessed that the difficulties he experienced with Oyre were part of the same involvement. Towards Aoz Roon, his feelings were now intensely ambivalent. The murder estranged his powerful protector even from his own daughter.

  His silence since the deaths implicated him in Aoz Roon’s guilt. He had become almost as speechless as Dathka. Once he had fared forth on his solitary expeditions out of high spirits and a sense of adventure, now sorrow and unease drove him forth.

  “Laintal Ay!” He turned at Shay Tal’s call.

  “Come along and sit with me until Vry returns.”

  The summons pleased and shamed him. He went quickly with her into her old rough refuge above the pigs, hoping none of his hunter friends saw him go. After the cold outside, its fug made him sleepy. Shay Tal’s furfuraceous old mother sat in a corner against the garderobe, droppings from which fell immediately to the animals below. The Hour-Whistler sounded the hour; darkness was already gathering in the room.

  Laintal Ay greeted the old woman and sat himself down on skins beside Shay Tal.

  “We’ll collect more seed and plant little fields of rye and oats,” she said. He knew by her tone she was pleased.

  After a while, Vry returned with another woman, Amin Lim, a plump, motherly young woman who had appointed herself Shay Tal’s chief follower. Amin Lim went straight to the rear wall of the room, sitting cross-legged with her back to the stonework; she wished only to listen, and to be within sight of Shay Tal.

  Vry was also self-effacing. She was of comparatively slight build. Her breasts scarcely made more show under her silver-grey furs than two onions would have done. Her face was narrow, but not without its good looks, because her eyes were deep-set and brilliant against the pale skin. Not for the first time, Laintal Ay thought that Vry bore a resemblance to Dathka; perhaps that accounted for Dathka’s attraction to her.