In came the refreshments, and perhaps at just the right time, too. Tonorosant left it to his older guide to make small talk and carry on the conversation. He himself had much to think of. Once again he saw (although his own background had never left him in any doubt) the error of the belief that “suffering purified.” Suffering seldom if ever did anything of the sort; suffering seldom if ever convinced a sufferer that suffering in itself was always wrong, because in between this conception and the sufferer almost invariably intervened the immediate and intensely felt conviction that this particular suffering was wrong — that his particular suffering was wrong. And, his own suffering over, or at least abated, his whole soul was and remained bent and intent on the end, not that no one should suffer, ever, but that he himself should not suffer, ever. Even if others should suffer.
It might be sad, then, to see how the Quasi Tarnisi, Phonorioth, himself scorned the Volanth. But it was far from surprising. He had spoken with pride of his Pemathi grandfather, his Tarnisi grandmother. He had carefully made no mention of any Volanth forebear, yet he must certainly have had one, however remote. Here, in this community, it was evidently a matter of prestige to be even part Pemathi; the Pemathi had a fairly respected place, after all, and it was certainly higher than that of the Quasi. But the Volanth had no place! And it was no wonder, though it was a shame, that their partial descendants hated them. Helots of helots, uncouth, brutal and brutalized, what could they do for their demi-cousins, except remind them of their hated origin?
It was again nothing unexpected that the Quasi, part Tarnisi, part Volanth, should hate — not the Tarnisi who hated them — but the Volanth who by comparison must be guiltless of very great offense. Yes, true, naturally, the Quasi resented the Tarnisi attitude towards themselves, the Quasi. But that was all which they resented in the Tarnisi. Aside from this grievous fault, which they would alter if they could, they held the Tarnisi to be faultless. But who would, who could admire the coarse and outcast Volanth? Tarnisi = Civilization; Volanth = Savagery. True or false, for better or for worse. It was the cultured, smooth Tarnisi whom one imitated, towards whom one aspired. Thus, by iniquitous irony, the styles and standards of the oppressors had become the ideals of even the oppressed. And the relationship from down, looking up, was one of mingled hate-love and love-hate. But from down, looking even farther down, it was nothing but hate.
“ — thus,” continued Phonorioth, forgetfully wiping at his full mouth with the back of his hand, “we must say: While we will ever appreciate, I must hope, the successful efforts of the Tulan to enable us to register our land titles here in the village, we must absolutely refute his notion that our cause is in any way connected with the beasts of Volanths — ”
There was more, but after a while Tonorosant felt he had had enough. It was pathetic, the way the man almost clung to them in hopes of prolonging their stay. They drove on through the shanty-village towards the promise of clean, green quiet in the trees and town ahead. “I had a curious impression as I came into the house,” Tonorosant said, “that I saw a rather hideous old woman crouching in front of the mirror for a moment.”
“Likely enough,” the old man said, placidly.
“It was just for a flash of a second, but it seemed to me that she was plucking hairs from her face!”
“Likely enough.”
“Who could it have been?”
“Oh … his mother … likely enough … .”
Jolted into turning his head, Tonorosant looked towards the Sapient, but as his float was not in precise alignment with the other, he actually looked past him. And received an even greater jolt. He looked directly into the open front of a low and dirty drink shop. Amidst the throng of Quasi one seemed to stand out — a man somewhat but not much better dressed than the others, his arm around a loose-bodied woman, he pressing a glass to her lips, she mock-pushing him away. The man didn’t look out the front of the groggery, but he moved a bit, urging the glass, and he showed his face — drunken, bitter, yet somehow more relaxed … and somehow, very much in place here.
And everything else about him fell very much into place.
“If a Quasi wanted to pass for Tarnisi, it might make sense not to aim too high, mightn’t it? and to pose as, say, a lacklander?”
Still placid, “Likely enough,” the old sage said again.
The drink shop fell behind. The pleasures of Tarnis Town lay ahead. And behind, too, with all his sullen joys, the man at the dirty bar. Here, at least, Cominthal had no need to pose at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The land sloped away and upward as far as the light but incessant rains permitted the eye to see. It was not a country of trees and it was not a cheerful country. The floats had no need of roads or even paths, but something which had worn one deep into the earth. The terrain seemed ancient and weary, the landscape was sullen and wet. Aero-3D shots were being taken all up and down a reticulated area, and from designated spots within each rectangle both core- and surface-samples had to be taken. The somewhat stocky middle-aged man with Tonorosant had long since ceased to be amused.
“Maybe I should have stayed where I was and let them reprocess me. At least it would have been dry.”
His companion said nothing, continued to set up the drill. Water streamed off both of them and along the ground.
“A tactful silence. But why? I’m sure that you know what I’m talking about.”
“Joint, please.”
He handed the joint, watched it being fitted into place, shrugged his broad shoulders. “After all, if I weren’t the same as you, would I know anything about it?” the stout fellow tried again. No answer. “And if you aren’t the same as me, how is it that you don’t try to convince me you don’t know what I’m talking ab — ” The drill spun into action. A burst of mud and air splattered against him. He jumped back and looked on with rueful good humor, shaking his head. The drill did not go very deep or take too long. In a matter of moments he helped slip the core in the container.
At the float Tonorosant said, “Come on … . You’re getting us all wet.” He reached over his still-stumbling helper and adjusted the hood.
“How come you don’t say something like, ‘You will not wish us to perish by an untimely drowning, I must hope?’ See what I mean? You’re a simulee … or something … just like I am. Besides, it already is all wet in here. Ah, well. Onward and upward to the next enchanted valley.” Beside him, fumbling for the control switch, Tonorosant laughed. “Well, I few! A human being is hidden inside of you after all. Victory,” crowed the other man, whose name was Storiogath. “Well, now that the beginnings of communication are observed between us — what in the Hell is this all about?”
Tonorosant shrugged. “Non-military levies are as legal as any other kind. A survey is wanted and a survey is being made.”
Storiogath poured a hot drink into two cups, handed one of them to the other. “Then you think that the pro-Lords faction is right? They claim it’s all part of a long-range plan to bring the Volanth under more effective control.”
Tonorosant inhaled the spicy steam, sipped. “It could be so,” he admitted, after a moment.
His companion gurgled noisily. “Like Hell it could, my sister’s armpit. What are the soil samples for, then? The gang that swears by the Guardians, one in particular I have in mind, he has to be a genuine native or exile, because he’s too stupid ever to have made enough money to — you know — he assures me that the Inside Word in his clique is that this is all being done to facilitate assignment of new lands. To those who haven’t got any now.”
“Mmm,” Tonorosant murmured, noncommittally.
Below, the land split apart into a gully, then came together again. Somewhere off in the septentrional distances a patch of light broke through the sky, lengthened, made way for another. A wheel of light turned around above them. Then, one by one, the spokes faded and were gone and all the dimness of the shallow rains returned.
“But I can’t swallow that one, either. I
don’t believe that the Guardians want any new lands to be available. This whole program of theirs is intended to weaken the Lords by creating a demand for the old lands that the Lords gave away way back when. I wonder what’s behind it all. Don’t you?”
Tonorosant glanced at the man. There seemed to be something behind what he had said. But there was so much to wonder about these days. The little box attached to the patrols suddenly began to click and chatter. “Oh, burrs. Time to make another sampling,” Storiogath grumbled. “And me still wet from the last one.”
Guided by the noise, now loud, now soft, now shrill, now deep, from the little box, they maneuvered the float about. The box gave a little purr of contentment, then fell silent. They put the float down and got out again. The surface sample was a mere dab, a second to take and a second to drop into the container already labeled with the coordinates of the sector; it was setting up the drill which took more time. Tonorosant got a rather low-grade satisfaction from performing the task correctly; Storiogath plainly didn’t. He jiggled, grunted, dropped as many things as there were to drop, sucked air through his teeth, groaned, wished he were back in Tarnis Town and that it were sunshine again. But by this time the work of drilling and de-coring had become familiar enough so that Tonorosant was able to do it by himself. He looked up after sliding the top back onto the core container and saw that his supposed helper had wandered away, was standing by himself on a rise of ground, outlined against the pearly mists and soft, slanting rain. Something watchful, wary in his look and stance.
First putting the equipment back into the float, he joined the other, giving him a quizzical look, asking with a gesture to be told what was up. For answer, Storiogath took his note-tab out and on it scrawled, There are people near here somewhere.
How do you know? — And what if there are?
I can smell and hear, can’t I? Who can it be — ?
Tonorosant had no answer. Supposedly, this was unpeopled terrain. True … there was the trail … But it might be an animal trail, or it might be old and disused. Or used only by people going across country from elsewhere to elsewhere … . In which case it was possible — He strained his ears, widened his nostrils. At first nothing, then nothing. Still nothing. Then … it did seem to him that above and behind the light and continual spatter of the rain he could hear something. Voices? Distant, human voices? It was possible. Possible, too, that in addition to the heavy and by now familiar odor of the wet earth he scented something even heavier but quite different: the raw, sharp odor of human flesh and sweat. Then, too, he thought there might be smoke in the air. And —
Below, quite some ways below, there was a scream. No imagination, this. A scream. And another. And another. And then, out of the rain and the misting far, a woman came running, running, screaming, running —
A naked woman.
Sudden remembrance, fright and fear, rose up and hit him in throat and belly and behind the knees. He jerked, trembled. Behind the running woman, a running man. Behind the naked woman, a naked man.
He gave an outraged, helpless cry. It was not possible for war to have broken out again and reached this ritual stage already. It was not possible for this to be — or was it not? — some not wholly physical, some visual as well as auditory echo, of the events of the last campaign? or any campaign? or all campaigns? a mirage of the angry air and hostile mists, forever re-enacting events so dire as to have implanted their scenes forever on the universal ether?
But this mood lasted only a second. The woman screamed too much. She looked back too much. She screamed too loudly. She ran too slowly. It was impossible not to realize: The woman was not attempting to get away. In Tonorosant’s ear came confirming words. “Somebody’s got rancid tastes in games — !” And the woman stumbled, and the woman fell.
But she fell very carefully.
And now it was the man who cried out. Louder even than she. Triumphantly. Obscenely —
They came out of the slanting rain and the long wet shadow, a diagonal line of them, so much alike, so moving-all-at-once their gesture, that it seemed that this, too, might be mirage. Reflection. Multiplication. Arms scooping. Arms flinging back. Arms flinging forward. Stones flying.
Down towards the lying woman the man leaping.
The man flinging up both his arms. The man’s legs flying out from under him. The man falling.
But not carefully. And not upon the woman.
And then all the voices crying out. Below, triumph and hatred and scorn. Above, alarm! alarm!
All heads down there upon the lower ground snapped up. This time the woman ran for real, leaping up and skimming over the wet sod, and she ran in the same direction as the running men. She did not scream or cry out even once. And they vanished away as they had come. And the figure lay scattered where they had brought it down. And the rains fell upon it, the rains washed it clean of sweat and of blood, and the rains alone lay lovingly upon it.
• • •
It was frightening, the accuracy with which the stones had hit him. Ankle, knee and jaw had certainly been broken. Spine, probably. Temple and cheekbone crushed. Ribs smashed.
“I’m suspending judgment,” Storiogath said, tightly. “And I’m getting the Hell out of here. Oh. Well … . Oh, I suppose you’re right.”
He stripped off his rain mantle, too. One beneath, one above, and thus they began to carry him. It had been a long and difficult way down, and would certainly be a longer and more difficult way up. The same thought occurred to them together.
“Which one of us goes for the float?” Tonorosant put it first.
“Which — ? Oh, burrs. Safety in numbers. We’ll both go together, my brother’s backside, I must hope. Why not? He won’t be going anywhere without our help.”
The rain was cold. “No … . But he might go somewhere with someone else’s help. And if I’ve got to bring back a story like this, I’d just as soon bring back the evidence with it. Besides … I don’t know about those shaggy men. But I think that this one has already paid. Enough. So — ”
So Storiogath was deputed to go for the float. Scarcely had he gone from sight when the old man and the old woman appeared. Heads, at first, just heads peering over the side of what one might have taken to be a mere strata-line upon the side of the broken hill but which must evidently have been a shelf with some degree of depth to it. Then the two of them full length, speaking quietly, hands outstretched and empty. Had they intended him harm, they could have already done it. So he showed his own hands, empty and outstretched, and they came down by some way he could not see from where he was.
A trap? As the dead man had, while living, been entrapped? It did not seem likely. Old man and old woman, primal types, archetypes, a nap of snowy hairs like an aureole or halo on bodies and limbs, stooped with age, heedless of the heedless rain, moved — it would seem — by nought but pity for the dead and concern for the living. Plucking at his by now sodden suit and moaning. Gesturing, gesturing. What? Smoke. Ah. Fire. Come with us, dry, warm. This was what they meant. And the dead man?
They assumed that burden themselves. Stooped with age they were, but still strong and agile enough. Tonorosant left his cap and a note, although likely enough he would be able to see the float from above and come out and signal. He followed the old pair and with some effort persuaded the woman to relinquish her hold upon the mantle-covered burden to him; she then went ahead as a guide, frequently turning to point out convenient footholds and putting out her hands to help him.
The ledge was, as he had thought it must be, rather a deep shelving which at its back so undercut the face of the cliff as to constitute a cave. The work of nature had been assisted by crude but sufficient efforts — walls of mud and rock, floor of sand and grass and furry hides. And a fire burned. Of what? there being no trees hereabouts. When he saw the small and smouldering red eye of heat augmented from the neat stack of fuel he thought at first that it must be the dried dung of some animal; but soon enough he realized that it must be peat or so
mething of the sort, cut from a source not too far off with the crude but serviceable tool leaning against the rough wall.
The place had a strong odor all its own, but it was not at all unpleasant — not to one with his rich experience of odors, certainly. The body was set down against the farthest wall. And then as the old woman continued her work at the fire, the old man improvised a sort of rack of smooth, worn poles and indicated to him that he was to put his clothes on them to dry. Just for a moment Tonorosant shivered, but after that, no more. He was just beginning to enjoy the warmth when the old woman moaned.
Tonorosant turned in surprise. The old man gave a cry, too. It was him that they were concerned with — their guest — and, coming up to him, they showed him why.
“Ah, that? It is an ugly scar. A bowl of boiling oil turned over — ” That was not oil in the pot on the fire, but he mimed the accident by pointing to it: evidently they understood. “It was a long, long time ago. In Pemath. Pemath.” They repeated the word, but it did not seem to mean anything to them. Still, they seemed upset and concerned, and they caressed his skin as one might a child’s. And for as long as he stayed unclad he saw them glancing back at him and sighing and making a rapid jerking of their heads as though distressed. By and by, whatever was in the pot was prepared and they shared it with him, passing around a battered old spoon of Pemathi make which must have come long ago from some trade packet.
The Enemy of My Enemy Page 12