by Jack Vance
During the late afternoon Cugel came to a village of a dozen mud huts populated by a squat long-armed folk, distinguished by great shocks of whitewashed hair.
Cugel gauged the height of the sun, then examined the terrain ahead, which extended in a dreary succession of tussock and pond to the edge of vision. Putting aside all qualms he approached the largest and most pretentious of the huts.
The master of the house sat on a bench to the side, whitewashing the hair of one of his children into radiating tufts like the petals of a white chrysanthemum, while other urchins played nearby in the mud.
“Good afternoon,” said Cugel. “Are you able to provide me food and lodging for the night? I naturally intend adequate payment.”
“I will feel privileged to do so,” replied the householder. “This is the most commodious hut of Samsetiska, and I am known for my fund of anecdotes. Do you care to inspect the premises?”
“I would be pleased to rest an hour in my chamber before indulging myself in a hot bath.”
His host blew out his cheeks, and wiping the whitewash from his hands beckoned Cugel into the hut. He pointed to a heap of reeds at the side of the room. “There is your bed; recline for as long as you like. As for a bath, the ponds of the swamp are infested with threlkoids and wire-worms, and cannot be recommended.”
“In that case I must do without,” said Cugel. “However, I have not eaten since breakfast, and I am willing to take my evening meal as soon as possible.”
“My spouse has gone trapping in the swamp,” said his host. “It is premature to discuss supper until we learn what she has gleaned from her toil.”
In due course the woman returned carrying a sack and a wicker basket. She built up a fire and prepared the evening meal, while Erwig the householder brought forth a two-string guitar and entertained Cugel with ballads of the region.
At last the woman called Cugel and Erwig into the hut, where she served bowls of gruel, dishes of fried moss and ganions, with slices of coarse black bread.
After the meal Erwig thrust his spouse and children out into the night, explaining: “What we have to say is unsuitable for unsophisticated ears. Cugel is an important traveler and does not wish to measure his every word.”
Bringing out an earthenware jug, Erwig poured two tots of arrak, one of which he placed before Cugel, then disposed himself for conversation. “Whence came you and where are you bound?”
Cugel tasted the arrak, which scorched the entire interior of his glottal cavity. “I am native to Almery, to which I now return.”
Erwig scratched his head in perplexity. “I cannot divine why you go so far afield, only to retrace your steps.”
“Certain enemies worked mischief upon me,” said Cugel. “Upon my return, I intend an appropriate revenge.”
“Such acts soothe the spirit like no others,” agreed Erwig. “An immediate obstacle is the Plain of Standing Stones, by reason of asms which haunt the area. I might add that pelgrane are also common.”
Cugel gave his sword a nervous twitch. “What is the distance to the Plain of Standing Stones?”
“Four miles south the ground rises and the Plain begins. The track proceeds from sarsen to sarsen for a distance of fifteen miles. A stout-hearted traveler will cross the plain in four to five hours, assuming that he is not delayed or devoured. The town Cuirnif lies another two hours beyond.”
“An inch of foreknowledge is worth ten miles of afterthought —”
“Well spoken!” cried Erwig, swallowing a gulp of arrak. “My own opinion, to an exactitude! Cugel, you are astute!”
“— and in this regard, may I inquire your opinion of Cuirnif?”
“The folk are peculiar in many ways,” said Erwig. “They preen themselves upon the gentility of their habits, yet they refuse to whitewash their hair, and they are slack in their religious observances. For instance, they make obeisance to Divine Wiulio with the right hand, not on the buttock, but on the abdomen, which we here consider a slipshod practice. What are your own views?”
“The rite should be conducted as you describe,” said Cugel. “No other method carries weight.”
Erwig refilled Cugel’s glass. “I consider this an important endorsement of our views!”
The door opened and Erwig’s spouse looked into the hut. “The night is dark. A bitter wind blows from the north, and a black beast prowls at the edge of the marsh.”
“Stand among the shadows; divine Wiulio protects his own. It is unthinkable that you and your brats should annoy our guest.”
The woman grudgingly closed the door and returned into the night. Erwig pulled himself forward on his stool and swallowed a quantity of arrak. “The folk of Cuirnif, as I say, are strange enough, but their ruler, Duke Orbal, surpasses them in every category. He devotes himself to the study of marvels and prodigies, and every jack-leg magician with two spells in his head is feted and celebrated and treated to the best of the city.”
“Most odd!” declared Cugel.
Again the door opened and the woman looked into the hut. Erwig put down his glass and frowned over his shoulder. “What is it this time?”
“The beast is now moving among the huts. For all we know it may also worship Wiulio.”
Erwig attempted argument, but the woman’s face became obdurate. “Your guest might as well forego his niceties now as later, since we all, in any event, must sleep on the same heap of reeds.” She opened wide the door and commanded her urchins into the hut. Erwig, assured that no further conversation was possible, threw himself down upon the reeds, and Cugel followed soon after.
In the morning Cugel breakfasted on ash-cake and herb tea, and prepared to take his departure. Erwig accompanied him to the road. “You have made a favorable impression upon me, and I will assist you across the Plain of Standing Stones. At the first opportunity take up a pebble the size of your fist and make the trigrammatic sign upon it. If you are attacked, hold high the pebble and cry out: ‘Stand aside! I carry a sacred object!’ At the first sarsen, deposit the stone and select another from the pile, again make the sign and carry it to the second sarsen, and so across the plain.”
“So much is clear,” said Cugel. “But perhaps you should show me the most powerful version of the sign, and thus refresh my memory.”
Erwig scratched a mark in the dirt. “Simple, precise, correct! The folk of Cuirnif omit this loop and scrawl in every which direction.”
“Slackness, once again!” said Cugel.
“So then, Cugel: farewell! The next time you pass be certain to halt at my hut! My crock of arrak has a loose stopper!”
“I would not forego the pleasure for a thousand terces. And now, as to my indebtedness —”
Erwig held up his hand. “I accept no terces from my guests!” He jerked and his eyes bulged as his spouse came up and prodded him in the ribs. “Ah well,” said Erwig. “Give the woman a terce or two; it will cheer her as she performs her tasks.”
Cugel paid over five terces, to the woman’s enormous satisfaction, and so departed the village.
After four miles the road angled up to a gray plain studded at intervals with twelve-foot pillars of gray stone. Cugel found a large pebble, and placing his right hand on his buttock made a profound salute to the object. He scratched upon it a sign somewhat similar to that drawn for him by Erwig and intoned: “I commend this pebble to the attention of Wiulio! I request that it protect me across this dismal plain!”
He scrutinized the landscape, but aside from the sarsens and the long black shadows laid by the red morning sun, he discovered nothing worthy of attention, and thankfully set off along the track.
He had traveled no more than a hundred yards when he felt a presence and whirling about discovered an asm of eight fangs almost on his heels. Cugel held high the pebble and cried out: “Away with you! I carry a sacred object and I do not care to be molested!”
The asm spoke in a soft blurred voice: “Wrong! You carry an ordinary pebble. I watched and you scamped the rite. Flee if
you wish! I need the exercise.”
The asm advanced. Cugel threw the stone with all his force. It struck the black forehead between the bristling antennae, and the asm fell flat; before it could rise Cugel had severed its head.
He started to proceed, then turned back and took up the stone. “Who knows who guided the throw so accurately? Wiulio deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
At the first sarsen he exchanged stones as Erwig had recommended, and this time he made the trigrammatic sign with care and precision.
Without interference he crossed to the next sarsen and so continued across the plain.
The sun made its way to the zenith, rested a period, then descended into the west. Cugel marched unmolested from sarsen to sarsen. On several occasions he noted pelgrane sliding across the sky, and each time flung himself flat to avoid attention.
The Plain of Standing Stones ended at the brink of a scarp overlooking a wide valley. With safety close at hand Cugel relaxed his vigilance, only to be startled by a scream of triumph from the sky. He darted a horrified glance over his shoulder, then plunged over the edge of the scarp into a ravine, where he dodged among rocks and pressed himself into the shadows. Down swooped the pelgrane, past and beyond Cugel’s hiding place. Warbling in joy, it alighted at the base of the scarp, to evoke instant outcries and curses from a human throat.
Keeping to concealment Cugel descended the slope, to discover that the pelgrane now pursued a portly black-haired man in a suit of black and white diaper. This person at last took nimble refuge behind a thick-boled olophar tree, and the pelgrane chased him first one way, then another, clashing its fangs and snatching with its clawed hands.
For all his rotundity, the man showed remarkable deftness of foot and the pelgrane began to scream in frustration. It halted to glare through the crotch of the tree and snap out with its long maw.
On a whimsical impulse Cugel stole out upon a shelf of rock; then, selecting an appropriate moment, he jumped to land with both feet on the creature’s head, forcing the neck down into the crotch of the olophar tree. He called out to the startled man: “Quick! Fetch a stout cord! We will bind this winged horror in place!”
The man in the black and white diaper cried out: “Why show mercy? It must be killed and instantly! Move your foot, so that I may hack away its head.”
“Not so fast,” said Cugel. “For all its faults, it is a valuable specimen by which I hope to profit.”
“Profit?” The idea had not occurred to the portly gentleman. “I must assert my prior claim! I was just about to stun the beast when you interfered.”
Cugel said: “In that case I will take my weight off the creature’s neck and go my way.”
The man in the black-and-white suit made an irritable gesture. “Certain persons will go to any extreme merely to score a rhetorical point. Hold fast then! I have a suitable cord over yonder.”
The two men dropped a branch over the pelgrane’s head and bound it securely in place. The portly gentleman, who had introduced himself as Iolo the Dream-taker, asked: “Exactly what value do you place upon this horrid creature, and why?”
Cugel said: “It has come to my attention that Orbal, Duke of Ombalique, is an amateur of oddities. Surely he would pay well for such a monster, perhaps as much as a hundred terces.”
“Your theories are sound,” Iolo admitted. “Are you sure that the bonds are secure?”
As Cugel tested the ropes he noticed an ornament consisting of a blue glass egg on a golden chain attached to the creature’s crest. As he removed the object, Iolo’s hand darted out, but Cugel shouldered him aside. He disengaged the amulet, but Iolo caught hold of the chain and the two glared eye to eye.
“Release your grip upon my property,” said Cugel in an icy voice.
Iolo protested vigorously. “The object is mine since I saw it first.”
“Nonsense! I took it from the crest and you tried to snatch it from my hand.”
Iolo stamped his foot. “I will not be domineered!” He sought to wrest the blue egg from Cugel’s grasp. Cugel lost his grip and the object was thrown against the hillside where it broke in a bright blue explosion to create a hole into the hillside. Instantly a golden-gray tentacle thrust forth and seized Cugel’s leg.
Iolo sprang back and from a safe distance watched Cugel’s efforts to avoid being drawn into the hole. Cugel saved himself at the last moment by clinging to a stump. He called out: “Iolo, make haste! Fetch a cord and tie the tentacle to this stump; otherwise it will drag me into the hill!”
Iolo folded his arms and spoke in a measured voice: “Avarice has brought this plight upon you. It may be a divine judgment and I am reluctant to interfere.”
“What? When you fought tooth and nail to wrench the object from my hand?”
Iolo frowned and pursed his lips. “In any case I own a single rope: that which ties my pelgrane.”
“Kill the pelgrane!” panted Cugel. “Put the cord to its most urgent use!”
“You yourself valued this pelgrane at a hundred terces. The worth of the rope is ten terces.”
“Very well,” said Cugel through gritted teeth. “Ten terces for the rope, but I cannot pay a hundred terces for a dead pelgrane, since I carry only forty-five.”
“So be it. Pay over the forty-five terces. What surety can you offer for the remainder?”
Cugel managed to toss over his purse of terces. He displayed the opal ear-bangle which Iolo promptly demanded, but which Cugel refused to relinquish until the tentacle had been tied to the stump.
With poor grace Iolo hacked the head off the pelgrane, then brought over the rope and secured the tentacle to the stump, thus easing the strain upon Cugel’s leg.
“The ear-bangle, if you please!” said Iolo, and he poised his knife significantly near the rope.
Cugel tossed over the jewel. “There you have it: all my wealth. Now, please free me from this tentacle.”
“I am a cautious man,” said Iolo. “I must consider the matter from several perspectives.” He set about making camp for the night.
Cugel called out a plaintive appeal: “Do you remember how I rescued you from the pelgrane?”
“Indeed I do! An important philosophical question has thereby been raised. You disturbed a stasis and now a tentacle grips your leg, which is, in a sense, the new stasis. I will reflect carefully upon the matter.”
Cugel argued to no avail. Iolo built up a campfire over which he cooked a stew of herbs and grasses, which he ate with half a cold fowl and draughts of wine from a leather bottle.
Leaning back against a tree he gave his attention to Cugel. “No doubt you are on your way to Duke Orbal’s Grand Exposition of Marvels?”
“I am a traveler, no more,” said Cugel. “What is this ‘Grand Exposition’?”
Iolo gave Cugel a pitying glance for his stupidity. “Each year Duke Orbal presides over a competition of wonder-workers. This year the prize is one thousand terces, which I intend to win with my ‘Bagful of Dreams’.”
“Your ‘Bagful of Dreams’ I assume to be a jocularity, or something on the order of a romantic metaphor?”
“Nothing of the sort!” declared Iolo in scorn.
“A kaleidoscopic projection? A program of impersonations? A hallucinatory gas?”
“None of these. I carry with me a number of pure unadulterated dreams, coalesced and crystallized.”
From his satchel Iolo brought a sack of soft brown leather, from which he took an object resembling a pale blue snowflake an inch in diameter. He held it up into the firelight where Cugel could admire its fleeting lusters. “I will ply Duke Orbal with my dreams, and how can I fail to win over all other contestants?”
“Your chances would seem to be good. How do you gather these dreams?”
“The process is secret; still I can describe the general procedure. I live beside Lake Lelt in the Land of Dai-Passant. On calm nights the surface of the water thickens to a film which reflects the stars as small globules of shine. By using a sui
table cantrap, I am able to lift up impalpable threads composed of pure starlight and water-skein. I weave this thread into nets and then I go forth in search of dreams. I hide under valances and in the leaves of outdoor bowers; I crouch on roofs; I wander through sleeping houses. Always I am ready to net the dreams as they drift past. Each morning I carry these wonderful wisps to my laboratory and there I sort them out and work my processes. In due course I achieve a crystal of a hundred dreams, and with these confections I hope to enthrall Duke Orbal.”
“I would offer congratulations were it not for this tentacle gripping my leg,” said Cugel.
“That is a generous emotion,” said Iolo. He fed several logs into the fire, chanted a spell of protection against creatures of the night, and composed himself for sleep.
An hour passed. Cugel tried by various means to ease the grip of the tentacle, without success, nor could he draw his sword or bring ‘Spatterlight’ from his pouch.
At last he sat back and considered new approaches to the solution of his problem.
By dint of stretching and straining he obtained a twig, with which he dragged close a long dead branch, which allowed him to reach another of equal length. Tying the two together with a string from his pouch, he contrived a pole exactly long enough to reach Iolo’s recumbent form.
Working with care Cugel drew Iolo’s satchel across the ground, finally to within reach of his fingers. First he brought out Iolo’s wallet, to find two hundred terces, which he transferred to his own purse; next the opal ear-bangle, which he dropped into the pocket of his shirt; then the bagful of dreams.
The satchel contained nothing more of value, save that portion of cold fowl which Iolo had reserved for his breakfast and the leather bottle of wine, both of which Cugel put aside for his own use. He returned the satchel to where he had found it, then separated the branches and tossed them aside. Lacking a better hiding place for the bagful of dreams, Cugel tied the string to the bag and lowered it into the mysterious hole. He ate the fowl and drank the wine, then made himself as comfortable as possible.
The night wore on. Cugel heard the plaintive call of a night-jar and also the moan of a six-legged shamb, at some distance.