Enchantress of Venus Dispelled

by Lee Brackett



  Enchantress of Venus Dispelled

  by Lee Brackett

  Copyright 2010 Lee Brackett

  An Erica Joan Stark Story

  A Gender Switch Adventure

  I

  The ship moved slowly across the Red Sea, through the shrouding veils of mist, his sail barely filled by the languid thrust of the wind. His hull, of a thin light metal, floated without sound, the surface of the strange ocean parting before his prow in silent rippling streamers of flame.

  Night deepened toward the ship, a river of indigo flowing out of the west. The woman known as Stark stood alone by the after rail and watched its coming. She was full of impatience and a gathering sense of danger, so that it seemed to her that even the hot wind smelled of it.

  The steerswoman lay drowsily over her sweep. She was a big woman, with skin and hair the color of milk. She did not speak, but Stark felt that now and again the woman's eyes turned toward her, pale and calculating under half-closed lids, with a secret avarice.

  The captain and the two other members of the little coasting vessel's crew were forward, at their evening meal. Once or twice Stark heard a burst of laughter, half-whispered and furtive. It was as though all four shared in some private joke, from which she was rigidly excluded.

  The heat was oppressive. Sweat gathered on Stark's dark face. Her shirt stuck to her back. The air was heavy with moisture, tainted with the muddy fecundity of the land that brooded westward behind the eternal fog.

  There was something ominous about the sea itself. Even on its own world, the Red Sea is hardly more than legend. It lies behind the Mountains of White Cloud, the great barrier wall that hides away half a planet. Few women have gone beyond that barrier, into the vast mystery of Inner Venus. Fewer still have come back.

  Stark was one of that handful. Three times before she had crossed the mountains, and once she had stayed for nearly a year. But she had never quite grown used to the Red Sea.

  It was not water. It was gaseous, dense enough to float the buoyant hulls of the metal ships, and it burned perpetually with its deep inner fires. The mists that clouded it were stained with the bloody glow. Beneath the surface Stark could see the drifts of flame where the lazy currents ran, and the little coiling bursts of sparks that came upward and spread and melted into other bursts, so that the face of the sea was like a cosmos of crimson stars.

  It was very beautiful, glowing against the blue, luminous darkness of the night. Beautiful, and strange.

  There was a padding of bare feet, and the captain, Malthora, came up to Stark, her outlines dim and ghostly in the gloom.

  'We will reach Shuruun,' she said, 'before the second glass is run.'

  Stark nodded. 'Good.'

  The voyage had seemed endless, and the close confinement of the narrow deck had got badly on her nerves.

  'You will like Shuruun,' said the captain jovially. 'Our wine, our food, our women—all superb. We don't have many visitors. We keep to ourselves, as you will see. But those who do come…'

  She laughed, and clapped Stark on the shoulder. 'Ah, yes. You will be happy in Shuruun!'

  It seemed to Stark that she caught an echo of laughter from the unseen crew, as though they listened and found a hidden jest in Malthora's words.

  Stark said, 'That's fine.'

  'Perhaps,' said Malthora, 'you would like to lodge with me. I could make you a good price.'

  She had made a good price for Stark's passage from up the coast. An exorbitantly good one.

  Stark said, 'No.'

  'You don't have to be afraid,' said the Venusian, in a confidential tone. 'The strangers who come to Shuruun all have the same reason. It's a good place to hide. We're out of everybody's reach.'

  She paused, but Stark did not rise to her bait. Presently she chuckled and went on, 'In fact, it's such a safe place that most of the strangers decide to stay on. Now, at my house, I could give you…'

  Stark said again, flatly, 'No.'

  The captain shrugged. 'Very well. Think it over, anyway.' She peered ahead into the red, coiling mists. 'Ah! See there?' She pointed, and Stark made out the shadowy loom of cliffs. 'We are coming into the strait now.'

  Malthora turned and took the steering sweep herself, the helmsman going forward to join the others. The ship began to pick up speed. Stark saw that he had come into the grip of a current that swept toward the cliffs, a river of fire racing ever more swiftly in the depths of the sea.

  The dark wall seemed to plunge toward them. At first Stark could see no passage. Then, suddenly, a narrow crimson streak appeared, widened, and became a gut of boiling flame, rushing silently around broken rocks. Red fog rose like smoke. The ship quivered, sprang ahead, and tore like a mad thing into the heart of the inferno.

  In spite of herself, Stark's hands tightened on the rail. Tattered veils of mist swirled past them. The sea, the air, the ship itself, seemed drenched in blood. There was no sound, in all that wild sweep of current through the strait Only the sullen fires burst and flowed.

  The reflected glare showed Stark that the Straits of Shuruun were defended. Squat fortresses brooded on the cliffs. There were ballistas, and great windlasses for the drawing of nets across the narrow throat. The women of Shuruun could enforce their law that barred all foreign shipping from their gulf.

  They had reason for such a law, and such a defense. The legitimate trade of Shuruun, such as it was, was in wine and the delicate laces woven from spider-silk. Actually, however, the city lived and throve on piracy, the arts of wrecking, and a contraband trade in the distilled juice of the vela poppy.

  Looking at the rocks and the fortresses, Stark could understand how it was that Shuruun had been able for more centuries than anyone could tell to victimize the shipping of the Red Sea, and offer a refuge to the outlaw, the wolf's-head, the breaker of taboo.

  With startling abruptness, they were through the gut and drifting on the still surface of this all but landlocked arm of the Red Sea.

  Because of the shrouding fog, Stark could see nothing of the land. But the smell of it was stronger, warm damp soil and the heavy, faintly rotten perfume of vegetation half jungle, half swamp. Once, through a rift in the wreathing vapor, she thought she glimpsed the shadowy bulk of an island, but it was gone at once.

  After the terrifying rush of the strait, it seemed to Stark that the ship barely moved. Her impatience and the subtle sense of danger deepened. She began to pace the deck, with the nervous, velvet motion of a prowling cat. The moist, steamy air seemed all but unbreathable after the clean dryness of Mars, from whence she had come so recently. It was oppressively still.

  Suddenly she stopped, her head thrown back, listening.

  The sound was borne faintly on the slow wind. It came from everywhere and nowhere, a vague dim thing without source or direction. It almost seemed that the night itself had spoken—the hot blue night of Venus, crying out of the mists with a tongue of infinite woe.

  It faded and died away, only half heard, leaving behind it a sense of aching sadness, as though all the misery and longing of a world had found voice in that desolate wail.

  Stark shivered. For a time there was silence, and then she heard the sound again, now on a deeper note. Still faint and far away, it was sustained longer by the vagaries of the heavy air, and it became a chant, rising and falling. There were no words. It was not the sort of thing that would have need of words. Then it was gone again.

  Stark turned to Malthora. 'What was that?'

  The woman looked at her curiously. She seemed not to have heard.

  'That wailing sound,' said Stark impatiently.

  'Oh, that.' The Venusian shrugged. 'A trick of the wind. It sighs in the hollow rocks around the str
ait.'

  She yawned, giving place again to the steerswoman, and came to stand beside Stark. The Earthwoman ignored her. For some reason, that sound half heard through the mists had brought her uneasiness to a sharp pitch.

  Civilization had brushed over Stark with a light hand. Raised from infancy by half-human aboriginals, her perceptions were still those of a savage. Her ear was good.

  Malthora lied. That cry of pain was not made by any wind.

  'I have known several Earthwomen,' said Malthora, changing the subject, but not too swiftly. 'None of them were like you.'

  Intuition warned Stark to play along. 'I don't come from Earth,' she said. 'I come from Mercury.'

  Malthora puzzled over that. Venus is a cloudy world, where no woman has ever seen the Sun, let alone a star. The captain had heard vaguely of these things. Earth and Mars she knew of. But Mercury was an unknown word.

  Stark explained. 'The planet nearest the Sun. It's very hot there. The Sun blazes like a huge fire, and there are no clouds to shield it.'

  'Ah. That is why your skin is so dark.' She held her own pale forearm close to Stark's and shook her head. 'I have never seen such skin,' she said admiringly. 'Nor such great muscles.'

  Looking up, she went on in a tone of complete friendliness, 'I wish you would stay with me. You'll find no better lodgings in Shuruun. And I warn you, there are people in the town who will take advantage of strangers—rob them, even slay them. Now, I am known by all as a woman of