by Stephan Wul
Her voice sounded hoarse, and her throat whistled as she coughed painfully. She seemed to lose her breath but she gained control again, panting and wiping her eyes.
‘Yeah’, she said several times, ‘yeah, yeah.’
Then, turning to her son:
‘You, give me this.’
The black Om gave her a large colourful piece of paper. She unfolded it before Terr and winked.
‘Here’s a label’, she said. ‘If you can read, tell me if what was in the tin was good to eat.’
Terr kept quiet, as he was still not over his trashing. The old lady laughed some more.
Look at him’, she said, ‘just look at him! He’s sulking, what a temper!’
And then suddenly, more serious:
‘Listen, little one, I like you. I like guys like you, hard and all. You’re young but promising, for sure! So here, I’d rather believe you, regarding the … deomising.
But I want to be sure, you understand, sure you’re not telling lies. If you give me the right answer about this label, I’ll let you go… Understood? So tell me if it’s good to eat and what the label says. Prove to me you can read.’
‘It’s not edible’, Terr called out bluntly, ‘it’s Irsaan paste to colour Traags’ clothes! Green paste!’
The old lady looked merrily around her.
‘Good’, she said. ‘Untie him!’
The Oms grudgingly obeyed and Terr was freed.
‘Don’t go right away’, said the old lady as the teenager was rubbing his wrists.
She came up to him and spoke into his nose:
‘I’m letting you go, young one, but if I realise I was wrong, beware. I’ll always find you! On the other hand, if you’re not having us on you can always come to ask me something if you need it.’
‘I spoke the truth,’ declared Terr.
‘Good, little one, good. Now go… Not this way, stupid! Redhead, guide him.’
Terr followed the red haired Om in a maze of covered alleyways where some daylight filtered through and which suddenly opened into the meadow. They split up without a word.
Back at the fork, he took up his lookout duty wondering if his group had heard the noise caused by his adventure.
He soon found out it was not the case. Two silhouettes he recognised as being Charcoal and Valiant appeared at the bend of the path. To guide them towards him, Terr let out a small whistle.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Valiant. ‘Didn’t you hear Brave’s signal? Everyone’s waiting for you at the foot of the tree.’
‘But your nose is bleeding’, worried Charcoal. ‘What’s going on?’
Terr lied:
‘I knocked myself out falling in the rockery’, he said. ‘I’ve only just come to.’
8
‘There you are!’ said Brave when he saw them arrive.
‘He knocked himself out falling over!’ announced Valiant.
‘I was getting worried. Anything broken?’
Terr reassured him. Brave swiftly inspected his small gang. Most female Oms carried babies. The males were loaded with all sorts of packages. Old Faithful was leaning on a stick, still puffing from coming down the tree.
Brave was thinking. His rudimentary reasoning was telling him to split his gang into mobile and less noisy groups. But the fear of losing someone on the way caused him to follow his feelings. Looking at the whole tribe he was overcome by a false sense of security and a feeling of strength and warmth swept through him. He gave the starting signal.
Walking in single file the Oms followed the usual path for their pillaging raids. They wound down amongst the palm leaves, forded the stream and left the park with no difficulty.
They then stood in the mud of a ditch which lined the road. Sudden sounds of falling and swearing could be heard here and there, and Brave shouted out ‘Quiet!’ as discreetly as possible.
Terr and Valiant were supporting the old Faithful.
‘Where are we going?’ whispered Valiant.
‘I reckon Brave wants us to go to the waste ground whilst waiting for somewhere better. Hasn’t he said anything?’
‘No, but I think you’re right.’
The old man was huffing too much to give an opinion. He was tumbling miserably on the smallest of bumps and his breathing sounded more like a moan.
Suddenly Brave gave the order to stop. A few shushes ran down the column. Everyone stopped. Terr and Valiant helped Faithful sit down in the mud.
‘Quiet!’ Brave’s commanding voice whispered once again.
Footsteps could be heard coming nearer. Slow and heavy Traag footsteps. The flabby steps hit the tarmac rhythmically like wet cloths. As the noise got louder a certain gap could be heard in the rhythm.
‘Two Traags!’ whispered Terr.
‘What?’ said Valiant.
Terr showed him two fingers… The low hum of a conversation could already be heard. The Traags’ words were disjointed as they spoke in their staccato style which was so hard for Oms’ throats to reproduce. Two giant silhouettes could be seen pacing heavily on the road. Their red eyes were glowing in the night. Sentences were taking shape:
‘… a little tired, but this brings us closer to the earth.’
‘Well, you know, it is more in our nature to swim. Fve always wondered if the old Zarek was right to make us mutate.’
‘Don’t be silly, in the water we’d reached a degree of evol…’
‘Gosh!’
‘What?’
‘The place reeks of Oms!’
The steps stopped close by. Hearts were beating with fear in the Oms’ chests.
‘It must be infested with them around here.’
‘Vermin! The Councillors should get it all cleaned up. Having Oms at home is not a bad thing: it’s entertaining. But all those wild Oms: They pillage, they’re dirty and they breed at a tremendous rate. Besides these animals are unhappy in the wild, full of lice and skin diseases!’
‘We are dealing with it.’
‘Not enough. What is needed is a global deomisation.’
The two Traags started walking again. A baby Om cried at that very moment. The steps stopped.
‘There is a nest in the ditch, said one of the Traags. The noise came from there.’
‘Let’s take a closer look.’
A light came on, flooding the ditch and dazzling the Oms.
‘Well!’ said one of the Traags. ‘Come and have a look. A real colony!’
‘Let’s eliminate a few before the others run away. Jump in the ditch with both feet.’
Two massive shapes darkened the stars and
toppled towards the Oms, as Brave’s voice was shouting:
‘Fight! Bite their legs, bite them everywhere!
Fight!’
Two muffled thuds shook the ground amongst screams of terror.
‘Trample all over them’, said a Traag’s voice. ‘Fight!’
The fast beam swept across old Faithful’s grey face as he was slumped next to Terr. The teenager just had time to see the old man’s body squashed to a bloody pulp. The Traags’ heavy voices dropped down from above:
‘They bite! But… rascals!’
‘Trample, trample!’
A flabby crushing was levelling the bottom of the ditch. As if in a frightful dream Terr leapt from the hole and came up against a Traag’s hand leaning on the curb. He bit it with all his strength, felt himself blown off towards the stars. His jaw was shaken as he flew into the distance with a piece of flesh in his teeth.
He rolled on the grass, wondered if he was dreaming as all around him screaming shadows were charging towards the battle site.
‘Jump on them, bite! Come on you Oms!’
He recognized the hoarse voice of the old lady from the bush and took fresh heart. He ran limping to the bloody ditch and got lost in thunderous violence, biting a throbbing mass collapsed across the embankment as the road shook with the sound of running away, then further away, and further…
‘Punctur
e the eardrums! Bite! The other one’s
running away! Come on you Oms!’
He bit fiercely on a soft surface, his ears buzzing with murderous madness. He then felt silence fall, a strange kind of silence, both victorious and horrifying.
‘The Traag is dead’, a voice said. ‘The other ran away!’
The Oms looked for each other in the night, counting. Names were called out:
‘Brave! Where’s Brave?’
He was found in the mud, hardly recognizable. A voice, the old lady’s, asked for silence. All eyes turned towards the bent and wiry shape standing on the embankment.
‘Big Tree Oms’, she said, ‘without us you’d all be dead. Let’s group together all of us. But let’s not forget we’ve just killed a Traag. We must leave now!’
Babies were crying. A female Om was moaning over a small corpse.
‘Quiet, women!’ the old lady shouted out. ‘I too lost my son in this, but what is done is done. Pick up your dead and let’s clear off, come on!’
She crossed the road followed by a group of wounded Oms. They disappeared into the night.
After a hundred steps or so, Terr turned around. On the battlefield he saw the defeated Traag’s head tilted back and facing the stars. The two red eyes were slowly losing their natural luminescence.
Terr caught up with his people, his teeth chattering.
PART TWO
1
The First Councillor for Continent A North stretched his membranes. He cast an eye on his axillary dial and puffed impatiently. Leaving the table he paced up and down his work loggia.
What a strange visit. What could Master Singh want from him? He recalled the latter had invoked urgency to get this appointment.
He had barely paced the room twice when a voice came from the interphone, announcing the eminent visitor.
‘Let him in!’ the First Councillor ordered sharply.
He opened the door to honour Master Singh, one of the continent’s great naturalist scientists.
When he appeared, the Councillor greeted him respectfully.
‘Happiness onto you, Master. Come in and make yourself comfortable.’
‘Happiness onto you, First Councillor, I am delighted to see you.’
Having exchanged polite remarks, the two Traags lay down facing each other on comfortable mattresses.
‘You mentioned urgency?’ the First Councillor said slowly, anxious to mask his nervousness.
He thought: “Old madman, what elaborate idea could have formed in your brain?”
‘Indeed’, the old man’s horse throat groaned. ‘I am not going to beat about the bush. I demand immediate measures against the Oms.’
‘The Oms?’ wondered the Councillor.
‘Yes, the situation is becoming worrying. Rest assured, I am not encroaching on your remit. Meddling with the Continent’s hygiene would not come to my mind. But this is getting beyond hygiene. The Oms present a danger, a danger which grows from day to day!’
He pulled from his gown several documents and asked:
in your opinion, how many Oms are there on Ygam?’
Dumbfounded, the First Councillor waved evasively.
it is hard for me to say precisely’, he admitted. ‘This year’s census mentions roughly ten million for Continent A North.’
He cut short with his hand an interruption from the Master and added:
‘Of course, one or two million stray Oms must be counted in, but not many more. Every two years urban deomisations put a stop to their incursions.’
‘The figures I have here’, declared the Master, ‘are much larger than the ones you have just mentioned, although they are still not precise.’
He softened his contradiction with an apologetic gesture and carried on:
‘I do not mean to offend you, but the Faculty’s estimates undoubtedly come nearer to the truth.’
He made another reassuring gesture:
‘The Continental Council is faultless, dear First Councillor, exemplary in all respects. And the measures it is taking are carried out with commendable frequency. But unlike us, your colleagues have not had to study the issue closely. Which, I may add, is absolutely customary. Each to one’s own field.’
He coughed a little, embarrassed by his frankness, and said:
‘I mentioned fields. Our studies have led us to compile a register of stray Oms using new methods, based on the number of tracks and the frequency of pillaging.’
The First Councillor laughed.
‘Pillage is a big word!’ he protested. ‘A few minor thefts at the most!’
‘Do not laugh. The number of collarless Oms is reaching thirty million on our continent alone. I contacted my colleagues on other continents, and they used the same method. A simple calculation gives a total of one hundred and fifty million, plus thirty five million properly registered by their masters. In other words there are almost two hundred million Oms on our planet.’
The two Traags remained quiet for a while. The First Councillor spoke first:
i am astounded, I must admit. But since I have no reason to doubt your scholarly claims, we will take action. Do you think ten deomisations a year would be enough to check the invasion? I can also tighten the regulations for luxury breeding. What do you think?’
The old Traag shook his head.
‘That is not enough’, he said. ‘The issue is not only with the proliferation of the Oms, but also with their evolution. The latter is more worrying than the former.’
‘Their… evolution? Please explain, Master.’
The scientist sat up and clicked his membranes resolutely.
‘I will have to give you a lecture’, he apologized. ‘Oh! Rest assured I will not go into details. Did you know the Oms were acclimatized on Ygam by our ancestors from the Second Age?’
indeed, they were brought from planet Earth.’
‘Their planet of origin! That’s right… Well, do you know how the Oms were organized on their planet?’
The First Councillor was surprised.
‘Organised, did you say? But they’re animals! They were roaming as families, I suppose, or in wild herds!’
‘Not at all! They lived in large conurbations of cemented alleys where each had a place of their own. They were organized in societies numbering roughly one million. A flawless discipline was kept by a strict hierarchical organization. Breeders were cherished and their only work was to bear children. At birth, each baby was selected for breeding, work or battle. They had a basic language.’
‘A language!’
‘Exactly. Oh, just a few terms used for precise commands, and always the same ones! Their organization’s rigidity spared them from improving their means of communication. Here is an interesting example, an alarm call: “Ant!”
‘Ant? What does…’
‘An alarm call, as I was saying. The reason it is interesting is because it indicated their traditional enemy was getting near: a giant insect organized in a similar way and also living in rough-and-ready cities. I will pass over the details… have you heard of Spraw’s theory?’
‘Well, no!’
‘Spraw was a scholar from the last lustrum. He claimed the Oms once enjoyed a brilliant degree of civilization similar to ours, but that its perfection was the very reason of a gradual sclerosis. Strictly imprisoned within their rules and regulations, the Oms did not have the need to think. Spraw thought instinct took over their intelligence. Why think when one leads a perfect life where everyone knows in advance what they must do? The Oms’ intelligence, how can I say, wasted away gradually, like a useless organ. Their lifestyle regressed and stagnated. Their civilization’s progress thus stopped.’
The First Councillor opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped, waving on to his guest to continue.
it was only a theory’, said the Master. ‘For a few days now we know that Spraw was right. An archaeological mission has discovered an Om city on Earth. Not a primitive city made of burrows, you understan
d. A real city! Thousands of clues lead us to believe the city was the work of civilized Oms! It was found miraculously beneath an ocean’s coastal mud. The results of the digs amaze us more every day. It is a major event.’
The First Councillor rubbed vigorously his eardrums with his clenched fists.
‘I see what you are getting at’, he guessed. ‘You fear the stray Oms will recreate their ancient civilization, with all the dangers this would present for ours. This seems to me…’
‘Excessive?’ interrupted the scholar. ‘Listen, dear First Councillor. We all know the Om to be an intelligent animal. What is worrying is that it is becoming more and more so. Some Oms speak. Not just a few words! They are making sentences! The performing Om has become a common attraction; to the point the public has become disinterested. It is now an act devoid of all originality. Whereas in the last lustrum, when I was a child, such acts did not even exist! I have here…’
He searched his documents.
‘I brought with me some statistics. In the city of Torm alone, owners have notified the police…’
He read:
in the month of Leo 713: one hundred and three Om losses. In the month of Bird: one hundred and forty five losses. Month of Fish: two hundred and ten. Then from month to month we have in succession: two hundred and twenty seven, three hundred and two, seven hundred and one; an incredible leap! Which takes us to last month (hold on tight) with one thousand two hundred and thirty six declarations of loss. One should say abscond. In each case, the Om in question was particularly intelligent. Voluntary absconding is proved in a third of the cases.’
He carried on speaking for a long time, gave more figures, based himself on facts and concluded:
‘This is what we have caused! We have… given back their individuality to the Oms. They did lose three quarters of their tyrannical social instincts, but not their sociable instinct. And as well as their intelligence they have regained their taste for freedom, and perhaps tomorrow their instinct for conquest. We took them out of a rut to place them back on the road to progress.’
The First Councillor stood up.
‘You have convinced me, Master Singh’, he said, i will intervene at the Great Council. But calm down a little, he added smiling, the Oms’ conquest of the Traags will not happen in a hurry!’