Then the weather grows unfriendly. We are entering a rocky, broken land, a domain of sandstone cliffs, bright red in color and eroded into jagged, fanciful spires and ridges, and here a hard, steady wind blows out of the south through a gap in the hills into our faces, carrying a nasty freight of tiny particles of pinkish grit. The sun now is as red as new copper in that pinkish sky, as though we have a sunset all day long. To avoid the sandstorm that I assume will be coming upon us I swing the caravan around to due east, where we will be traveling along the base of the cliffs and perhaps will be sheltered from the worst of the wind. In this I am incorrect, because a cold, inexorable crosswind arises abruptly, bringing with it out of the north the very sandstorm that I had hoped to avoid, and we find ourselves pinned down for a day and a half just below the red cliffs, huddling together miserably with our faces masked by scarves. The wind howls all night; I sleep very badly. At last it dies down and we hurry through the gap in the cliffs and resume our plodding southeastward march.
Beyond, we find what is surely a dry lakebed, a broad flat expanse covered with a sparse incrustation of salt that glitters in the brutal sunlight like newly fallen snow. Nothing but the indomitable saw-grass grows here, and doubtless the lake has been dry for millennia, for there is not even a skeletal trace of whatever vegetation, shrubs and even trees, might have bordered its periphery in the days when there was water here. We are three days crossing this dead lake. Our supply of fresh water is running troublesomely low already, and we have exhausted all of our fresh meat, leaving only the dried stuff that increases our thirst. Nor is there any game to hunt here, of course.
Is this what we are going to have to face, week after week, until eventually we reach some kinder terrain? The oldest men, Seeker and Quartermaster, are showing definite signs of fatigue, and the women, who have never been far from their river for even a day, seem fretful and withdrawn. Clearly dismayed and even frightened, they whisper constantly among themselves in the Fisherfolk language that none of us has ever bothered to learn, but draw away whenever we approach. Even our pack animals are beginning to struggle. They have had little to eat or drink since we set out and the effects are only too apparent. They snap listlessly at the tufts of sharp gray grass and look up at us with doleful eyes, as though we have betrayed them.
The journey has only just begun and already I am beginning to regret it.
One evening, when we are camped at some forlorn place near the farther end of the lake, I confess my doubts to Captain. Since he is our superior officer and I am the officer who is leading us on our route, I have come to assume some sort of equality of rank between us that will allow for confidential conversations. But I am wrong. When I tell him that I have started to believe that this enterprise may be beyond our powers of endurance, he replies that he has no patience with cowards, and turns his back on me. We do not speak again in the days that follow.
There are indications of the sites of ancient villages in the region beyond, where the river that fed that dry lake must once have flowed. There is no river here now, though my practiced eye detects the faint curves of its prehistoric route, and the fragmentary ruins of small stone settlements can be seen on the ledges above what once were its banks. But nowadays all is desert here. Why did the Empire need us to defend the frontier, when there is this gigantic buffer zone of desert between its rich, fertile territories and the homeland of the enemy?
Later we come to what must have been the capital city of this long-abandoned province, a sprawling maze of crumbled stone walls and barely comprehensible multi-roomed structures. We find some sort of temple sanctuary where devilish statues still stand, dark stone idols with a dozen heads and thirty arms, each one grasping the stump of what must have been a sword. Carved big-eyed snakes twine about the waists of these formidable forgotten gods. The scholars of our nation surely would wish to collect these things for the museums of the capital, and I make a record of our position, so that I can file a proper report for them once we have reached civilization. But by now I have arrived at serious doubt that we ever shall.
I draw Seeker aside and ask him to cast his mind forth in the old way and see if he can detect any intimation of inhabited villages somewhere ahead.
“I don’t know if I can,” he says. He is terribly emaciated, trembling, pale. “It takes a strength that I don’t think I have any more.”
“Try. Please. I need to know.”
He agrees to make the effort, and goes into his trance, and I stand by, watching, as his eyeballs roll up into his head and his breath comes in thick, hoarse bursts. He stands statue-still, utterly motionless for a very long while. Then, gradually, he returns to normal consciousness, and as he does so he begins to topple, but I catch him in time and ease him to the ground. He sits blinking for a time, drawing deep breaths, collecting his strength. I wait until he seems to have regained himself.
“Well?”
“Nothing. Silence. As empty ahead as it is behind.”
“For how far?” I ask.
“How do I know? There’s no one there. That’s all I can say.”
We are rationing water very parsimoniously and we are starting to run short of provisions, too. There is nothing for us to hunt and none of the vegetation, such as it is, seems edible. Even Sergeant, who is surely the strongest of us, now looks hollow-eyed and gaunt, and Seeker and Quartermaster seem at the verge of being unable to continue. From time to time we find a source of fresh water, brackish but at any rate drinkable, or slay some unwary wandering animal, and our spirits rise a bit, but the environment through which we pass is unremittingly hostile and I have no idea when things will grow easier for us. I make a show of studying my maps, hoping it will encourage the others to think that I know what I am doing, but the maps I have for this part of the continent are blank and I might just as well consult my wagon or the beasts that pull it as try to learn anything from those faded sheets of paper.
“This is a suicidal trek,” Engineer says to me one morning as we prepare to break camp. “We should never have come. We should turn back while we still can. At least at the fort we would be able to survive.”
“You got us into this,” Provisioner says, scowling at me. “You and your switched vote.” Burly Provisioner is burly no longer. He has become a mere shadow of his former self. “Admit it, Surveyor: We’ll never make it. It was a mistake to try.”
Am I supposed to defend myself against these charges? What defense can I possibly make?
A day later, with conditions no better, Captain calls the nine of us together and makes an astonishing announcement. He is sending the women back. They are too much of a burden on us. They will be given one of the wagons and some of our remaining provisions. If they travel steadily in the direction of the sunset, he says, they will sooner or later find their way back to their village below the walls of our fort.
He walks away from us before any of us can reply. We are too stunned to say anything, anyway. And how could we reply? What could we say? That we oppose this act of unthinkable cruelty and will not let him send the women to their deaths? Or that we have taken a new vote, and we are unanimous in our desire that all of us, not just the women, return to the fort? He will remind us that a military platoon is not a democracy. Or perhaps he will simply turn his back on us, as he usually does. We are bound on our path toward the inner domain of the Empire; we have sworn an oath to continue as a group; he will not release us.
“But he can’t mean it!” Stablemaster says. “It’s a death sentence for them!”
“Why should he care about that?” Armorer asks. “The women are just domestic animals to him. I’m surprised he doesn’t just ask us to kill them right here and now, instead of going to the trouble of letting them have some food for their trip back.”
It says much about how our journey has weakened us that none of us feels capable of voicing open opposition to Captain’s outrageous order. He confers with Provisioner and Stablemaster to determine how much of our food we can spare for th
em and which wagon to give them, and the conference proceeds precisely as though it is a normal order of business.
The women are unaware of the decision Captain has made. Nor can I say anything to Wendrit when I return to our tent. I pull her close against me and hold her in a long embrace, thinking that this is probably the last time.
When I step back and look into her eyes, my own fill with tears, and she stares at me in bewilderment. But how can I explain? I am her protector. There is no way to tell her that Captain has ordered her death and that I am prepared to be acquiescent in his monstrous decision.
Can it be said that it is possible to feel love for a Fisherfolk woman? Well, yes, perhaps. Perhaps I love Wendrit. Certainly it would cause me great pain to part from her.
The women will quickly lose their way as they try to retraverse the inhospitable desert lands that we have just passed through. Beyond doubt they will die within a few days. And we ourselves, in all likelihood, will be dead ourselves in a week or two as we wander ever onward in this hopeless quest for the settled districts of the Empire. I was a madman to think that we could ever succeed in that journey simply by pointing our noses toward the capital and telling ourselves that by taking one step after another we would eventually get there.
But there is a third way that will spare Wendrit and the other women, and my friends as well, from dying lonely deaths in these lonely lands. Sergeant had shown me, that day behind the three little hillocks north of the fort, how the thing is managed.
I leave my tent. Captain has finished his conference with Provisioner and Stablemaster and is standing off by himself to one side of our camp, as though he is alone on some other planet.
“Captain?” I say.
My blade is ready as he turns toward me.
Afterward, to the shaken, astounded men, I say quietly, “I am Captain now. Is anyone opposed? Good.” And I point to the northwest, back toward the place of the serpent-wrapped stone idols, and the dry lakebed beyond, and the red cliffs beyond those. “We all know we won’t ever find the Empire. But the fort is still there. So come, then. Let’s break camp and get started. We’re going back. We’re going home.”
THE PRISONER
Sleep, supposedly, is restful. Knits up the raveled sleeve of care, etc., etc. My sleeves get just as raveled as anyone else’s during the course of a busy day, and it is with much gratitude that I put head to pillow at ten o’clock or thereabouts every night, and sleep usually comes upon me with welcome speed. But restful sleep? Alas, no. My mind, which over the decades has spawned more than a thousand stories and I know not how many hundreds of novels, keeps me occupied all night, but not necessarily amused, with an outpouring of vivid, detailed, and often quite disturbing dreams. Not just the standard dreams, either—the one in which you have to take a final exam and can’t find the classroom, or the one in which you show up naked at the big party, or the one in which you discover that you can fly by jumping into the air and flapping your arms. I have had all of those, of course, but also a good many weird and grotesque ones, real horrors, inexplicable by anything so simple and obvious as mere anxiety or wish-fulfillment fantasy.
In my more active days as a writer I would often rise in the morning with some of those dreams still intact, and after breakfast I would turn them into salable fiction—which was some recompense, at least, for the uneasiness they had caused me in the night. Now and then I would even rise in the middle of the night and make notes on some dream that was too good a story to risk forgetting. I once assembled an entire novel—Son of Man, which I wrote in 1969—from three weeks’ worth of dreams.
I’m not writing much fiction these days, so about all I can do with my dreams is tell them to my wife when she awakens (she does not awaken swiftly, and sometimes she mistakes my narration of a dream for some news report from the morning’s paper) or e-mail them to a friend who was involved in them (as in the case of the friend who advised me to turn my pet hippopotamus loose in our swimming pool to eat the water-weeds that had mysteriously begun to thrive there; we have neither a pet hippo nor a problem of weeds in the pool, but it all made sense in the dream, until the point when I found I was unable to get the damned beast out of the pool so that I could use it again myself.)
When the South African editor and critic Nick Gevers invited me in 2008 to turn some of my dreams into fiction for an anthology called The Book of Dreams that he was doing for Subterranean Press, I found the idea as irresistible as I had that earlier invitation to write a Dying Earth story for Gardner Dozois and George R.R. Martin. Simply to write one more story, after all the stories I’ve written since 1952 or so, does not set my pulse a-pounding. A story proposal that speaks to some special interest or quirk of mine is much more apt to arouse my interest; and I let Nick Gevers know by return email that I would contribute to his book. The basic idea for the story came to me almost at once, and in December, 2008 I began jotting down the details of some of my nastier dreams upon awakening each morning. (Some of the most sinister arrived during Christmas week.) Early in the new year I had enough for my needs, and I wrote the story in January, 2009; it appeared in the Gevers anthology the following year.
——————
Lately his dreams have had great urgency. He is sprinting frantically up some bright windy beach from the edge of the surf, the cold rising tide licking at his heels, desperately trying to reach the dark rockpile at the foot of the nearby cliff where he can clamber up above the rapidly rising water. Or he is jogging through some nasty wasteland of spongy yellowish soil while narrow serpentine heads rise all about him out of little circular craters, snapping at his ankles with angry fangs. Or he is running uphill on a broad, steep urban boulevard, dodging the speeding cars that come rocketing downhill toward him.
He awakens from these dreams sweaty, panting, shivering with residual fear. They are only dreams, he tells himself, as he showers and shaves and dresses for work. They are strange dreams, they are unpleasant dreams, they are very unpleasant dreams, but all they are is dreams, after all, mere effluvia of the night, and they will fade and be gone swiftly in the bright light of morning.
The strange thing, though, is that they don’t fade.
Through the first hour of the day’s work they seem more real than the work itself. He stares into his screen and sees, not the gaily colored charts and graphs of the corporate ebb and flow, but the menacing images he thought he had left behind at the coming of dawn. Bristly antennae, slavering jaws, bulging green eyes, great jagged rocks bouncing down a hillside toward him, a roaring river in full spate above a dangling fractured bridge—whatever ugly terrifying scene had intruded on his sleeping mind the night before carries over into the day and churns and mills before him like some ghastly movie that has seized possession of his terminal.
His distress shows on his face. “Are you okay?” they ask. Or they say, “Big night out last night?” Or sometimes it is, “I’m beginning to think you’re taking this job too seriously, Dave.”
To which he replies such things as, “Bit of a headache this morning,” or, “I look that bad, do I?” or, more usually, “No, really, I’m fine. Really.”
But what they see is what there is. The face that looks back at him from the washroom mirror is unquestionably pale, haggard, tense. He splashes himself with cold water, briskly rubs the muscles of his cheeks and forehead to relax them, pulls his lips back in an idiotic forced grin that he hopes will seep inward so that he looks more at ease. Usually by lunchtime everything is normal again. He goes out with the gang, he does the standard banter, he swaps movie comments and sports chitchat and stock predictions, and when he returns to the office the face in the washroom mirror is his ordinary everyday face again.
But then, come night—
It is two years and some months since his marriage broke up, and though he began going out again quickly enough afterward, he usually spends most nights of the week except Friday and Saturday alone. Which means that when dreams arrive, and if they are horrific on
es, the sort of dreams that are beginning to become the norm for him, he has only his pillow to reach to for comfort when the sweaty anguish awakens him. Just as well, perhaps: More than once recently he has terrified some new Saturday-night companion with the four a.m. scream and clutch, which he has found is a good way of transforming a promising new relationship into a one-night stand. “Sorry,” he will say. “That was one lulu of a bad dream.”
“It must have been,” she says, and he can tell from her tone that she is already thinking of how soon she can get her clothes on and head for home.
Everybody dreams, he tells himself, and everybody has a nightmare once in a while. What he’s going through now is a little unusual, perhaps, an odd spate of spectacularly grim stuff. But just a phase, he thinks. Maybe a temporary metabolic upheaval, or some short-lived digestive strangeness, a delayed reaction to the breakup of his marriage, or maybe some oblique reflection of ongoing challenges at the office. It will pass. It will pass. Meanwhile he has started to dread going to sleep.
After three weeks he shares his troubles with Charlie, who is plump and balding and calm and likes to play the role of father confessor and amateur shrink around the office. Charlie has been through a lot of stuff himself, and he has read a lot of books, and he is the quickest hand anyone has seen at dredging up an Internet diagnosis for any sort of ailment.
“It’s a normal biological process, dreaming,” Charlie says. “The nocturnal shedding of daily stress through transformation of negative energy into randomly created imagery: a catharsis, a cleansing. We need the dreaming process in order to stay sane. You must be working your way through a lot of inner crap, things stored on some level that isn’t even consciously accessible to you.”
The Millennium Express - 1995-2009 - The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg Volume Nine Page 54