The First Riders

by David Ferguson

  ‘They're meant to be,’ Wath-Moll said.

  The drivers studied the two hunters lightly riding on the necks of their mounts, bows within reach, scabbards on their backs, saddle-bags strapped to the sides of their blenjis. They looked formidable.

  ‘What do you fellows plan to do in River Fork?’ one asked.

  ‘We don’t know. We're just hunters.’

  The drivers grinned and waved. ‘Good luck, fellows. See you around.’ And they clattered off down the road.

  Wath-Moll talked as they rode.

  ‘They were friendly?’ Wath-Moll asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Those inside were puzzled, and the female certainly didn’t believe you about the speed-dragon, but they were friendly.’

  ‘They didn’t seem surprised that we were going to the town.’

  ‘No. That must be good. Perhaps it will be all right.’

  In the mid-afternoon they met a gate. On either side a deep ditch had been dug. It stretched into the distance on both sides. The two hunters had never encountered anything like it before and were completely puzzled as to its function. A hole had been dug across the road over which narrow wooden slats had been placed. Their blenjis could not walk across it. Beyond the ditch the vegetation was much sparser, as if it had been cleared. In the distance they could see flatheads.

  ‘We can’t go on, and we're nearly there,’ Wath-Moll said in disgust.

  ‘We go through that,’ Eln-Tika said, pointing at the gate. ‘It opens with a catch. You hold it open while I go through, then you go through, then I dismount, walk back and close it. It's what it's for.’

  ‘Yes, but what's the point? Why is any of this here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They negotiated the gate and continued the ride. More flatheads appeared.

  Eln-Tika suddenly spoke after a period of silence. ‘They're keeping the flatheads in. They can’t get across the ditch because its too deep, they can’t get through the gate because of the latch, and they can’t get across the road because of the hole.’

  Wath-Moll stared thoughtfully at her and then at the grazing herds of flatheads. They did not seem afraid of them. He gazed at the curiously bare ground.

  ‘You're right,’ he said eventually. ‘They're keeping them in so that they can’t get away when they hunt them. It's amazing. It must have taken a lot of work to make that ditch. Hundreds of days.’

  ‘Or hundreds of chanits,’ Eln-Tika said quietly.

  ‘Of course. The chanits in the town did it.’ Wath-Moll paused in awe. ‘If they can do that, what else can they do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we're about to find out, I think.’

  Eln-Tika was finding the thoughts she could sense uncomfortable. There were too many. She tried filtering them out, but although partially successful, it was exhausting.

  ‘Perhaps it will come with practice,’ Wath-Moll suggested when she mentioned the problem. ‘Most things do, I've found.’

  To their left, a short distance away, a line of tall trees appeared. They could just see glinting water.

  ‘A river,’ Wath-Moll observed. ‘That's why the town is called River Fork. They would need a river nearby for water.’

  The buildings of the town were coming slowly into view, but the area they were riding through was still curiously empty of chanits. The buildings were large, but not huge. Some were made of stones, cut into squares and fitted carefully together. Some were made of wood, again carefully made. Both featured square holes that were filled with a material that shone in the sun. Occasionally there was a wooden board fastened to a building that was covered in complicated squiggles.

  ‘I think that's writing,’ Wath-Moll said. ‘I've heard stories about it. If you know how to read you can tell what the squiggles mean.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Eln-Tika said.

  ‘Well, I don’t either, but those are the stories.’

  Now that they were among the buildings there were chanits, more than they had ever seen before. All were walking, but there were a few blenjis tied to rails in front of the buildings, so it seemed they could ride if they wanted.

  Some of the chanits were staring at them, but nobody approached. They rode slowly down the street until they came to a wide, empty square area surrounded on all sides by buildings. It seemed as good a place as any to stop.

  Ma-Sek, sheriff of River Fork, watched the two hunters hitching their blenjis to the rail. He observed their dustiness, the saddlebags, obviously designed for long-distance travel, and in particular, he observed the bows and the arrows with their coloured quills. They impressed him. They looked fearless, tough, and competent. He had not seen a hunter for years, indeed he had wondered if they had not died out. It was difficult away from the towns with so many dangerous enemies about. They travelled in eights, he remembered, so why were there only two? Were they outcasts, thrown out of their octet because of some crime? He would have to find out. He left his chair in the shade of the porch of his office and walked across the square to the two strangers, who were now staring about them, wondering what to do.

  Chapter 5

  The two hunters were still staring about them when Ma-Sek came within speaking range.

  ‘You're strangers here, huh?’ he asked.

  Wath-Moll, who was wondering desperately what to do, and who was beginning to experience the unusual feeling of intimidation, turned to the voice. He saw a chanit, not unlike himself, who wore loose-fitting leather trousers and a dull red shirt made of a material they had not seen before. He carried a short metal sword held in a scabbard attached to a waist-belt. He had never seen anything like it, and he wondered at its purpose. It was useless for hunting because by the time you got close enough to use it you would either be dead or the prey would have run away..

  ‘You are a leader,’ Eln-Tika said abruptly.

  Ma-Sek was surprised, first at the astonishing accent, and second at the perception. ‘Not a leader exactly,’ he said, ‘an enforcer of the law. I'm Ma-Sek, sheriff of this town. You have to tell me who you are, what you are doing here, and where you are planning on going.’

  ‘We're hunters. My name is Wath-Moll, and my companion is Eln-Tika. We've come here to live. There are only two of us because the others were killed. Two can’t live in the hills. It's too dangerous.’

  ‘I see. And what do you plan to do in River Fork?’

  ‘We don’t know. We can ride and we can hunt, if that's any use to anybody.’

  Ma-Sek regarded the two hunters thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you hunt?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Flatheads mostly.’

  ‘What about slashers? Do you hunt them?’

  ‘No. You can’t eat them, but we have to kill them sometimes. They're dangerous.’

  ‘How do you kill them? They're so fast.’

  ‘We're faster,’ Wath-Moll said simply.

  The sheriff continued to be thoughtful. ‘Look you guys, come over to the office. You need to fill in papers and what have you before you can do anything in this town. It's a product of civilisation. And while we're there doing that and having a drink - which I expect you fellows could do with - I'll tell you what you should do.’

  The office was a functional wooden building with very little that was unnecessary. The room had a table, four chairs, and some cupboards. To Wath-Moll and Eln-Tika it was bizarre, containing as it did objects they had never seen before.

  They recognised the containers of water, and gladly accepted the hospitality. But they had never seen paper and a pen before. When they were asked to fill in the forms they had to confess they could not write. Ma-Sek listened without surprise. He would have been astonished if they could. He filled out the forms to their dictation, then handed them copies.

  ‘Keep these with you. They enable you to stay in the town. You may be asked to produce them by one of my men. You can tell us by the swords we carry. Now we come to the question of what you should do here. I have a suggestion. The farms are getting
a lot of trouble from slashers lately, and it seems to be getting worse. You might be able to hunt them down for us. I'll take a ride out to Bro-Bak's place this evening and get his opinion. Meanwhile you can stay at the silencehouse. What do you say?’

  Wath-Moll and Eln-Tika did not know what to say, for they did not know what he was talking about. It was Eln-Tika who asked the first question.

  ‘What's a silencehouse?’ she asked.

  The sheriff stared. ‘Ah. Of course. You don’t know about such things. Right. A silencehouse is where a colony of our townsfolk live and work. They grow vegetables and brew drinks and suchlike. They're very useful. And in their spare time they meditate in silence. They think thoughts,’ he added as he saw the blank looks of the hunters. ‘They are known as the silents, although they are not silent all the time, just when they are meditating. But their immediate relevance is that they look after travellers, not that there are too many of those these days. You will be able to stay with them tonight.’

  ‘They think thoughts?’ Eln-Tika asked. ‘What about?’

  ‘Big things. Where we come from. Where we are going. That kind of thing.’

  Wath-Moll interrupted the conversation for more urgent matters. ‘What's a farm? And what's Bro-Bak's place?’

  Ma-Sek was very patient. After all, these two characters had never seen a town before. ‘Bro-Bak is a farmer and a farm is where he and his people live and work. They raise flatheads.’

  ‘Raise flatheads’ You mean breed them?’ Wath-Moll asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes. It saves hunting. Fellows like you don’t exist round here, more's the pity, because we don’t hunt any more.’

  ‘Except slashers.’

  ‘Except slashers. We think that they have discovered that the farms are an easy way to get food. How they get over the ditch we don’t know.’

  Wath-Moll had a revelation. ‘The ditch keeps slashers out and the flatheads in. What a good idea. If you weren’t greedy about how many flatheads you ate you could keep them for ever.’

  ‘That's right.’

  Ma-Sek led them out of his office to his waiting blenji. In the evening sun the three riders set off towards the silencehouse, a low complex of stone buildings on the edge of the town. To the two hunters the structures looked as if they would stand for all time.

  ‘Probably will,’ Ma-Sek said in answer to Eln-Tika's question. ‘The silents think long. A few hundred years is like tomorrow to them, I shouldn’t wonder. I'll take you to the elders. I expect they'd like to meet you. I doubt if they've seen a hunter for years. You two could be a breath of fresh air.’

  They dismounted in the stone-flagged yard. On three sides were low buildings made of pale reddish stone with high-pitched roofs of dark grey-blue slates. The windows were tall, narrow slots in long rows. There was nobody about.

  ‘I expect they're finishing the day in the fields. They shouldn’t be long. We'll walk over.’

  The fourth side of the yard was open. Beyond were fields and as they walked towards it they saw figures working in the fields. A bee buzzed past Wath-Moll and he waved his hand to ward it off.

  ‘There's plenty of those around here,’ Ma-sek said. ‘They farm them for the honey. It's good. They also make a drink out of it. That's good too. Ah, here's one of the elders. We'll talk to him.’

  An aged chanit was walking towards them. He walked slowly, and seemed in some pain. Wath-Moll and Eln-Tika had never seen anyone so old. He would not have lasted a day as a hunter. Eln-Tika began wondering about the implications of this train of thought, but stopped when the elder spoke. He had a high, reedy voice with a difficult accent. The two hunters had some trouble understanding him.

  Ma-Sek introduced them and explained the situation in a few crisp sentences. The elder seemed to understand immediately.

  ‘Hunters! They can rid us of the slashers. This is marvellous! Sil-Jeve, come over here, and meet some hunters!’ The last remark was addressed to another silent, who was walking towards them carrying various farming implements. His ascetic appearance was at odds with his labour. He greeted them in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Hunters, eh? We haven’t met many of you lately, I can tell you. It's nice to know there are still some of you around. I wouldn’t want to think that all chanits had turned into farmers and town-dwellers. We need a few free spirits like yourselves.’

  Eln-Tika and Wath-Moll hardly understood the words, but he was obviously friendly, and before long he was showing them to their room. He led them into one of the buildings where it was quite dark inside and rather cool. Eln-Tika could feel the stone floor cold under her feet. They walked down the passage-way past many wooden doors. At one they stopped. Sil-Jeve opened it and led them inside. The room was bare except for two identical low wooden structures and a third smaller wooden structure. On the last was a small metal object with a pale cylindrical object sticking out of it.

  Sil-Jeve noted the baffled look on the faces of the hunters and realised the problem.

  ‘You haven’t seen beds or tables or candles before, have you?’

  ‘If that's what they're called, no we haven’t,’ Wath-Moll said tersely.

  Sil-Jeve explained carefully all the facilities. The toilet arrangements were a source of amazement, but they realised the necessity immediately.

  ‘When you are ready you are welcome to a meal. We eat at sunset. I will come to you at that time.’ With that he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Wath-Moll and Eln-Tika were unhappy. They were shut in, away from the open air that had always been part of their life. There was no sound where they were used to the calls of the animals of the night and the rustle of the ferns in the breeze.

  ‘At least there's no danger,’ Wath-Moll said. ‘Is there?’ he added anxiously.

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ Eln-Tika replied. ‘This is the most peaceful place I have ever known. The thoughts around me are so pure, so clean, I can’t believe it. I must find out how they do it.’

  ‘Meditating, according to the sheriff, whatever that is.’

  ‘Exactly! What is it?’

  ‘We'll ask. Assuming they don’t turn silent, that is. Mind you, I haven’t noticed much of that, I must say. Sil-Jeve was chatty enough.’

  ‘Yes, he was, although I think he was being polite. He is also just outside the door.’

  As soon as she said it, there was a soft knock on the door and Sil-Jeve entered. Wath-Moll smiled to himself. He wondered if any of the silents were a telepathic as Eln-Tika.

  They walked with Sil-Jeve along passages to the dining room. Silents were emerging from their rooms as they passed, so that it was a small group that entered the dining room. Other silents were streaming in from other entrances. It was a not entirely silent gathering. There was a low murmur of conversation, mostly, as far as the two hunters could make out, about bee-keeping, vegetable-growing and other subjects of limited interest to outsiders.

  Everyone queued up to help themselves from a huge tureen of thick vegetable soup. Wath-Moll and Eln-Tika had occasionally eaten a similar broth when the ingredients had been to hand and they had felt like it. They carried their steaming bowls and metal spoons to one of the long tables when they sat together with Sil-Jeve on one side and a silent named Dalu-Mai, who turned out to be female. She had long hands that, when in repose, she held together, the palms flat against each other. To Eln-Tika she had an intense stillness that she had not met before. However she seemed very friendly.

  ‘You are hunters, I understand?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘Yes,’ Eln-Tika answered.

  ‘In some ways you must be rather like us - independent, self-sufficient, close to nature, with a certain amount of time for thinking.’

  Eln-Tika was surprised - for several reasons. It had not occurred to her that the silents and themselves were in any way alike. To her their own nomadic ways and the sedentary lives of the silents were quite different. But she could see what she meant. They were at peace with themselves, a
s, in a different way, they were, and very unlike those in the town whose busy, anxious thoughts she could sense all the time, although here in the silencehouse they were more distant and easier to deal with.

  She was also surprised at the comment about thinking. How did Dalu-Mai know about their thinking, the evening discussions that had been such an important part of the octet's activities? Was Dalu-Mai also a telepath? She asked the first question.

  ‘We know a little about hunters, even though we rarely meet them. Your evening discussions are the stuff of legend. The ruthless killers philosophising after the day's killing is done. It's incongruous, don’t you think’ But we understand it, for all chanits need to think. The town people are the worst off for they lead such busy lives that in the evenings they can only rest their minds. The herdsmen are a little better, but it seems their dusty work necessitates frequent visits to saloons, where, I fear, little thinking is done. It's just you and us that have the luxury - or rather, the necessity - of thinking.’

  ‘Necessity?’ Eln-Tika asked.

  ‘We believe all chanits need to think, to use the mind, even if the herdsmen do spend their time in saloons and the townspeople are too tired - it is their loss,’ Dalu-Mai replied. ‘It is something it seems we, as a race, must do. It is part of the problems of town living that it is difficult to think when you have so much to do and live around so many others. But I have heard about you hunters and your way of life. It is a good life, even if it is a hard one. But we have taken thinking to the final refinement. We think on abstractions, why we are what we are, why we are here, even - what is here?’

  ‘I know. You have the purest thoughts I have ever felt. I would like to aspire to them.’

  There was a short silence. ‘You can feel our thoughts? Does that mean you are a telepath?’ Dalu-Mai asked eventually.

  ‘Yes.’

  A few of the silents who were listening to the conversation turned towards Eln-Tika. Their polite interest had suddenly sharpened.

  ‘How does it manifest itself?’ one asked. ‘Can you read thoughts?’