Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  His heart sank as a glimpse to his right showed Wiegl’s mount, having barely reached the shore, now lying prone on the ground. If struck down, a brund faced a difficult and sometimes impossible task to regain its footing. From amid the seething chaos of biting, crunching predators, a single figure emerged. Running on short legs, his flat stubby tail extended straight out behind him, Wiegl was sprinting frantically in Flinx’s direction. He was pursued by no less than three gowrie, their choice of prey now as unchained as their hunger.

  It took all of Flinx’s recent Largessian learning to persuade his reluctant mount to drop into a squatting position. Fortunately, while swift as eels in the water, the gowrie were not nearly as efficient at traveling on land. Not only was the adrenaline-fueled Wiegl able to outdistance them, he reached the supply-filled saddle opposite Flinx long before they could attack the legs of the human’s brund. Straightening once more to its full height and having shed its earlier attackers, Flinx’s mount resumed its gallop northward. Once it was back on dry land, the gowrie gave up the chase.

  Breathing hard, the human in long, steady gasps and the Larian in short, peppy bursts, the two survivors tried to catch their respective breaths as their remaining mount strode onward. Unlike its still-agitated riders, the brund’s duller nervous system had already consigned to memory its near-death experience. Behind them, man and Larian could hear a chorus of excited moans as the surviving gowrie commenced the grisly task of tearing apart the unfortunate fallen brund. Its surviving companion showed neither interest nor concern at the demise of its former cohort.

  Flinx rendered no judgment. Neither did Pip as she returned to the walking tube. Every species, every creature, dealt with death in its own way. Perhaps, he thought, the way of the brund was preferable.

  “We’re very lucky.” Catching himself, Flinx recast his comment in proper singspeech. “Lucky we are, to escape such an ambush, to avoid such a death. No accident was it, I think, that we were fooled into helping, someone set not to plead with us, but to murder. A choice of such weapons I would not have suspected, would not have recognized, being as I am more used to, those of mechanical design.” He grew aware that Wiegl was not listening to him so much as staring at him.

  “Such quiet suits you,” Flinx continued, “as it is both uncharacteristic and flattering, though I have to admit its unexpected appearance now, leaves me somewhat puzzled.”

  “ ‘Puzzled’ is a description I would use myself.” The guide was unusually solemn as he regarded his alien companion. Crammed next to the offworlder in the single available saddle, he could smell the human as though its body odor had been distilled to its essence. “Though it is perhaps not a term strong enough, to explain what just happened”—he gestured back the way they had come—“in the middle of that bay. Puzzled indeed I am by the inexplicable, by that which cannot be explained, by things I see but do not comprehend, for which I cannot conceive an explanation.”

  Flinx did not volunteer enlightenment. “I don’t understand, either your confusion or puzzlement: we were attacked, and fought off the attack, and saved ourselves, and now continue on our way.”

  The guide made a gesture Flinx did not understand. “I will make myself clearer then, so that even a child, would have no difficulty, sharing my bemusement.” With one long arm he gestured back the way they had come.

  “In serious difficulty we were; waylaid by a most devious assassin, assaulted by a horde of gowrie, and I myself brought to the ground encircled by teeth. You yourself were under direct attack, trapped in your saddle, proximate to a foul death, with little room to maneuver.” He indicated the nearby metal tube that was once again inhabited by the deadly offworld flying thing, near to which he felt he was seated much too close for comfort.

  “Yet out of this chaos your pet emerges, and without word or sign from you, knows precisely where to go, and whom to attack. It ignores the gowrie, who are the immediate threat, flies across the water, and puts a terrible end to the one who directs them, the one who is in charge. It speaks not a word, does your poison-spitter, waits not for a command, but seemingly of its own volition, does exactly what is necessary to save us.”

  The guide’s singspeech, which had lapsed into lullaby, concluded forte.

  “How—did—you—do—this?”

  How much more should he tell this native? Flinx mused. Wiegl’s black eyes were locked on him, the guide’s attitude one of expectancy mixed with anxiety. They had shared much together. Did that entitle a fellow survivor to far-reaching revelations? On the other hand, what harm could it do for his companion to know a little bit more of the truth? It wasn’t as if he was going to run to Commonwealth authorities with anything he was told. By all accounts, he’d met and had dealings with at least several humans prior to being engaged by Flinx. Doubtless in the future he would have more. None of those encounters were likely of their own accord to lead to intense discussions about an exceptional human named Philip Lynx. Considering where they were going and what they might yet have to do, it might prove useful for Wiegl to know…certain things. Expressing them and explaining them in singspeech posed a challenge.

  “Do you know, my friend, what a telepath is, and does, and is capable of doing?” When his perplexed guide responded in the negative, Flinx explained. “It is someone who reads minds; and as I said that night in Poskraine, that is something I cannot do, nor to my knowledge, can any sentient being. What I am, through no desire or wishing of my own, is an empath, albeit an erratic one. I can perceive and interpret, the feelings of others, so long as they are, capable of emotion.”

  Wiegl’s eyes did not grow wide, as they could not grow any wider than they already were. He conveyed his amazement nonetheless. Not wishing to overwhelm, much less frighten, his companion, Flinx held back from adding that he could also, under certain conditions, “push” the emotions of others. He gestured toward the occupied metal tube.

  “My ‘pet’ is similarly blessed, or cursed as the situation dictates, with the same ability, to sense the emotions of others. Being my companion since childhood, she is particularly sensitive, to those emotions that surround me, like storm clouds dimly glimpsed. If I am threatened, she knows it, and if no danger is present, she knows that as well. In each situation she reacts accordingly, so if I show fear of something, or of someone, she will try to negate its malign influence, will try to reduce its threat to me, even before I can sense it myself.”

  Wiegl pondered this explanation long and hard, singing nothing. The brund continued on its steady pace, occasionally snapping at the bright red modaks that darted in and around its head, seeking scraps of food or edible parasites. Finally Wiegl looked from the tube back to Flinx.

  “So despite the fact that we live in an age of science and reason, there is no denying, that you are a magician, and the poisonous Pip your familiar.”

  Flinx gave up. He’d said more than he should have, had provided as cogent an explanation of his abilities and his link to the minidrag to the guide as he ever had to anyone, and the result had been a fallback to superstition and fable. Maybe it was just as well. On the unlikely chance Wiegl ever found himself in conversation with a representative of the Commonwealth and the subject of a solitary traveler in pursuit of another ever came up, the guide would simply say he had been traveling with a magician. Let the Science authorities in Denpasar sort that one out.

  As for Wiegl, though he re-interpreted (or rather, misinterpreted) the human’s explanation to suit his own understanding of the world, it did not alter his perception that he was traveling in the company of a very strange being, and not just because the offworlder in question boasted an excess of digits on his hands and feet. Surely there was more, much more, to this Flinx individual than he was telling. Simple magic tricks would not explain the offworld authorities sending a single one of their own to track down a renegade of their kind, especially one who evidently enjoyed status and protection among a Leeth as powerful as Minord.

  It raised the question: s
hould he remain with and continue to aid this human in his task, or would flight be the more sensible option? Taking the latter course of action would mean leaving the offworlder to continue on his own, a situation that would likely result in his death. Of course, should he survive such abandonment and return to Borusegahm station, whether successful in his task or not, that could raise questions tricky for the guide to handle.

  Which difficult course to follow?

  In the end, it was the matter of final payment for his services that enabled Wiegl to decide. If he returned without the human in tow (as opposed to bringing back his body, which was another matter), he was unlikely to receive the outstanding balance due for his services. In the end, avarice won out over caution.

  “It’s all right,” he told his attentive companion, “and does not matter, whether you are a magician, or a master of some science, that is beyond my understanding. The difference between the two is nothing but a matter of perception; a matter of words, of experience, and of comprehension, based on culture. Mine races like a wolagail to catch up to yours, so that in the near future, with luck, with effort, and with good fortune, we may in some small way partake fairly of your knowledge.”

  His words were reassuring, even sympathetic, but Flinx could sense that the guide’s emotions were conflicted. That was perfectly understandable considering all that Flinx had just revealed to him. Wiegl was not unintelligent, but he was being forced to try to make sense of something that would confuse any typical citizen of the Commonwealth, and he with considerably less scientific background.

  Let him think I’m a magician, then, if it eases his mind. I need his skills and knowledge of his world, not his biotechnical understanding.

  He had a good heart, Flinx decided. In the end, that meant more than anything else—no matter the species to which the individual in question happened to belong.

  13

  ■ ■ ■

  Several things struck Flinx simultaneously as they finished crossing yet another wide but shallow ocean inlet and he and Wiegl found themselves confronted by a column of excessively solemn, preternaturally quiet natives. In contrast to every other Larian he had encountered since his arrival on Largess, these individuals were entirely unclothed. Not that the thin, lightweight attire common to this world did much more than accentuate the fur-covered bodies beneath, but clothing carried important cultural and social meaning. These Larians had dispensed with it entirely.

  They had surrounded the surviving brund in such numbers that it was forced to halt lest it step on one or more of the processioners, or trip over them. There were at least two hundred: all devoid of clothing, all wearing nothing but similar somber expressions. To Flinx’s eyes they looked slightly catatonic. Male and female, young and old, each displayed a distinctive mark in the form of a chevron shaved into the fur of their forehead, above the eyes and below the ears.

  He glanced to his right. Within her tube Pip did not stir. That confirmed his own perceptions. Despite having blocked the way forward, nothing but good feelings rose toward the two travelers from those assembled below. Perhaps they just wanted to talk, or had questions about the way south. He sung the thought to Wiegl.

  The guide was considerably less indulgent. If Wiegl could only experience the same flow of compassion and goodwill that was coursing through the earnest gathering, Flinx thought, some of the guide’s natural suspicions might be allayed.

  Confirmation of his initial impressions came in the form of a beautifully sung request from one of the leaders of the procession.

  “They want only to talk with us; to converse, to speak, to engage in pleasant exchange.” As Flinx spoke he was preparing to direct the brund to squat so that he and Wiegl could dismount. “It has been my experience, that such is often the case with genial travelers, no matter the species, no matter the location.”

  Wiegl grunted a sour note but did not argue. “It has been my experience, that such is often the case, that seemingly amiable strangers, conceal within their belongings sharper things than words.”

  “Look at them, look closely,” Flinx urged his wary companion, “and there is nothing, with which to threaten us, for their intentions are as transparent, as is their lack of clothing.”

  “Maybe you do not find that so, but for someone like myself, this absence of attire, of any kind, of any style, of any opacity, strikes me as more than passing odd. And there is that strange mark, that each of them wears on their head, clearly indicative of something significant, with which I am not familiar.”

  Flinx grinned as the brund, in response to his command, folded itself into a squatting position. “You boast of your knowledge, you boast of your experience, but I think you have not traveled all that widely, outside Borusegahm Leeth.”

  Apparently unbothered by the accusation, Wiegl chose not to contest it. “I am one who listens well, and therefore learns many things, about far places and distant lands, that in truth I have not visited.” His gaze met that of the human. “You sometimes yourself speak, of places not personally seen, so even though you have access, to more information than I, it amounts to the same thing.”

  Flinx conceded the point. “We’ll talk then with these gentle travelers, and learn something of them; of why they wear no raiment, and the meaning of the mark each wears.” He shrugged. “It may help us in our quest, it may not, but in the end, all knowledge is valuable.”

  As he slipped over the side of the saddle enclosure, it was plain that Wiegl was still far from comfortable being surrounded by so many strangers. “How do you know their intentions, by what means do you attest to their ‘gentleness,’ and what assurances can we expect? For myself, I will keep my knife, close by my side, and as handy as my words.”

  His offworld companion grinned anew. “Have you forgotten already, of what I am capable, this ‘magician,’ with whom you travel?” He waved at the nearest members of the procession, who had begun to approach now that the brund had settled into a resting position. “I have taken the measure of the feelings of many, and although I can never be certain, it is clear enough to me, that they mean us only kindness.”

  “Once again I place my life,” Wiegl muttered musically under his breath, “in the hands of a near-hairless offworlder, who knows much but who I believe sometimes thinks little.”

  Of the three processioners who came up to them, one was exceptionally tall for a Larian. Her flexing neck frill made her appear even taller. She loomed over Flinx while her two companions flanked her silently. Her quick, perfectly familiar gesture of greeting was returned by Wiegl and, with admirable precision, by Flinx. He spared a quick glance backward in the direction of the now-seated brund, which was chewing placidly on a cluster of bushes thick with dark green seedpods. As it ate, the pods fluttered anxiously. There was still no indication that Pip felt any differently about the mass of marchers than she had when they had initially been encountered. Once again, Flinx felt his initial impressions confirmed. He was relaxed as he turned back to the leaders of the group.

  “We greet you as fellow travelers, though you go south and we to the north, in hopes that each of us finds, that for which we are searching.”

  The shock among the procession’s principals was profound. “We have heard of offworlders, though never encountered any ourselves, and yet you sing our language, with impressive skill!” In unison, all three tilted their heads forward, extended their breathing tubes, and spread their arms wide, making a single sweeping forward gesture reminiscent of the ancient human swimming stroke known as the butterfly. Flinx didn’t even try to duplicate it, nor did Wiegl. The guide’s posture indicated that he might be, ever so slightly, warming to this procession of unclothed eccentrics.

  “We wonder, my companion and I, at your absence of attire,” Flinx pointed, “and the meaning of the singular mark, each of you carries.”

  “That is easily explained,” murmured the tall female, “as the disdain for clothing is as much a mark, of our beliefs, as the indication on our forehead
s. We are Zeregoines, of the Yolaig sect, on pilgrimage, to the Eastern Sea.”

  Flinx frowned, turned to his guide. In everything he had studied about Largess, he had never heard of this group. Of course, one could hardly learn everything there was to know about a Class IVb world in the course of a single space-plus transit.

  Wiegl’s response indicated that he knew no more about the sect or its beliefs than did his human companion. Purely as a matter of personal interest rather than out of any driving need, Flinx determined to learn a bit more about them. Then they could exchange gifts, or share a meal, or do whatever protocol demanded, before proceeding on their separate ways.

  “Neither I nor my companion have heard of the Zeregoines, and as we are always interested in new things, before continuing on our path, we would like to know more about you; about your ways, and your beliefs, and your way of living.”

  The leader gestured understandingly. For a Larian female she had a deep singing voice; it was in keeping with her physical as well as social stature. “Your seeking of knowledge is most admirable, as I would not have expected it, from an offworlder, more so than one of my own kind.” Raising both arms, she turned to face the nearby narrow bay. “We believe that, as we come from the sea, we should return to the sea. That which belongs to the land should stay with the land, while we, the children of the Great Mother Ocean, the offspring of water, the descendants of the ancient swimmers, should disregard all that is of the ground. We swim, we dive, we fish, we reproduce, in our birthplace, the ocean.” Lowering her arms, her expression benign, she turned back to Flinx and Wiegl.

  “This we believe: that all should join with us, in returning to the water, in reclaiming our birthright.”

  Such a philosophy easily explained the lack of clothing, Flinx mused, and of any baggage the group carried that could not survive submergence. Well, as a political-religious set of values, it seemed harmless enough for those who might choose to follow its tenets. It represented backward-looking, devolutionist thinking, but posed only a mild threat to the steady progress being made in places like Borusegahm. The fact that Wiegl, with his wide-ranging contacts and interests, had never heard of this sect was proof enough that despite the size of this particular column of believers, their influence could not be widespread. As a thoughtful aside, they had little in common, for example, with another stringently regressive group with which he’d had treacherous dealings in the recent past. Try as he would, he could detect from those who looked on in silence not a single inimical emotion directed toward him or his guide. These folk might be behind the times in their thinking, but from all appearances and everything he could sense, they were good people.