Beneath Strange Stars: A Collection of Tales

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  "We mean you no harm, Master Goyezdanka," Mikhial said. "We need to craft a lens."

  "I will leave you a payment," Thrassa said, "but, please, come no closer."

  The lensmaker was a tall gaunt man, with pale eyes, weak from years of detail work. His long nimble fingers suggested a high level of dexterity. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "Mikhial."

  "The priest?"

  "Now merely a brother in Christ," Mikhial explained, "dwelling alone in the Novabazan Forest."

  "Ah, yes, I remember now, very sad," the tall man murmured. "Who is your companion?"

  "A traveler."

  "A traveler who fancies lenses? A traveler from where?"

  "Do you possess an instrument known as a telescope, Master Goyezdanka?" Mikhial asked.

  After a long silence, the lensmaker replied, "It would not be prudent to make such an admission. I crafted an instrument like that for the King, but I am not the King."

  "But if you had such an instrument, you might see the stars as they really are," Mikhial continued. "Not as lanterns in the vault or lights upon the prime crystalline sphere, but as...distant suns."

  Goyezdanka swallowed nervously. "And your friend..."

  "From one of those distant suns," Mikhial said, stepping aside.

  Thrassa looked up and slowly pushed back his cowl.

  "Holy Mother of God," the lensmaker breathed. The light in his hand trembled and for a moment it appeared the man would swoon, but the moment passed.

  "Thrassa is a traveler far from home and in need of Christian charity," Mikhial continued. "Will you help?"

  Goyezdanka nodded. He put on his leather apron and moved to where Thrassa had been working. Satisfied, Mikhial returned to his post, but the lonely street remained vacant. Occasionally he heard snippets of conversation between Goyezdanka and Thrassa, but they might as well have been speaking another tongue. Suddenly Mikhial felt pity for this lensmaker into whose life they had brought the mysteries of an unknown universe. Whereas Mikhial lived a life of sylvan solitude, Goyezdanka was all alone in a crowd, which made him the more isolated of the two.

  In less than an hour, with Goyezdanka's assistance, Thrassa had crafted the necessary portion of the lens assembly and was satisfied it would work properly when fitted into place. He reached into an inside pocket of his cloak.

  "No payment is necessary, friend Thrassa," the man protested. “You have paid me with knowledge that my work is not in vain. To help you in some small way is the greatest honor of my life, an honor that any amount of gold or silver would only diminish."

  “In that case," Thrassa said, proffering a small, flat crystalline slab, "please accept this as remembrance of me and my gratitude. "He touched several small protrusions along the side and a planetary scene sun as Mikhial had viewed aboard the sky‑ship appeared above to surface.

  "There is a small voice in my mind," Goyezdanka whispered in awe. "It tells me of this...planet...among the distant suns.”

  "It is a record of everywhere I have been." Thrassa explained.

  "Thank you," Goyezdanka said. "I will hold it for my children, my children's children...until a generation that touches the stars."

  Mikhial and Thrassa took their leave, the cat‑man cradling the intricate lens assembly and again donning cloak and cowl to conceal his nature. As they quit the low quarter of Belgrade, they encountered armed patrols and travelers in the night. Though they were able to avoid any direct confrontations, the streets became more thronged as they approached the sky‑ship. By the time they came within sight of the craft it was clear that entering it without observation would be impossible.

  "We come to a parting of the ways, "Mikhial said. "Watch for your opportunity."

  "Wait."

  "There is no time," Mikhial said. "The longer we wait, the more difficult it will become. They may not even wait for daylight before trying to break into your ship.”

  "How can I repay you for everything you've done?"

  "You already have," Mikhial replied, moving away before the parting became more sorrowful than bittersweet. "Watch for your opportunity."

  Mikhial ran into the square where the sky‑ship was under guard. He climbed atop the pedestal of a statue to a forgotten battle and began shouting, screaming, exhorting unto the heavenly host. At first people screamed and ran, yelling and pushing each other, then, as they recognized him as the banished priest, Old Mikhial, they came surging back. He did not plan his words, did not frame his thoughts, but let the spirit carry him where it wilt. He spoke of worlds about distant suns and the life forms that called those worlds home, people of a different flesh but having spirits touched by the spark of God. His words both thrilled and terrified and it was not long before a riot erupted. All the soldiers, even those about the sky‑ship were pulled into the fray.

  Rifle fire sounded, the weapons being discharged above the crowd, but that did little to pacify the crowd and nothing to still Mikhial's ringing voice.

  "Silence, blasphemer!" a voice cried above even Mikhial's. "You damn yourself and these people by your words!"

  It was Bishop Pryezda, astride his horse, riding through the crowd, oblivious to those he rode down, citizen and soldier alike, oblivious to all but Mikhial standing atop the base of the monument. Everybody was involved in the riot now. There was no one left to guard the sky‑ship.

  "Listen and hear the truth of distant suns!" Mikhial shouted.

  "Blasphemer!" the Bishop screamed, his voice finally stilling the crowd. "This time you shall burn!"

  A sudden whining sound sliced the air, emanating from the sky‑ship. The unearthly sound caused the crowd to again panic. Only a show of force from the soldiers kept them from rioting. Mikhial smiled as the craft pulled against the restraining ropes, then lifted from the back of the cart. Despite the stoutness of the bonds, the ropes snapped apart like strings, some dangling as the sky‑ship rose into the air.

  "No!" Bishop Pryezda cried, riding toward the departing craft. "I do not release you, demon!"

  The Bishop seized one of the dangling ropes as if by dint of strength he could prevent the rising sky‑craft from escaping the surly bonds of this terrestrial sphere. The ship continued rising without pause, taking the rope‑grasping Bishop with it. Both man and ship quickly vanished into the star‑strewn sky.

  For a long moment, everyone, Mikhial included, stood staring upward, thus were all witnesses to the sight of the Bishop falling to earth, to his body shattering into crystalline shards against the cobble pavement. Mikhial smiled grimly. A terrible death, to be sure, but not inappropriate for one who murdered with fire.

  The death of Bishop Pryezda catalyzed citizenry and soldiers into action, most trying to pull Mikhial down, though a few tried to protect him. By force of numbers, however, those wishing to harm Mikhial, either to vent their vengeance or to propitiate their fears won out. He was taken into their ungentle grasp.

  Suddenly a volley shots rang over the unruly mob.

  All was silent.

  All was still.

  Mikhial turned his head and saw a tall, bearded man upon a black charger. Upon the man's brow was a cross‑encircled gold crown. It was the King. Beside him rode Goyezdanka the lens cutter. Ranged on either side of them were the King's Own, the mounted royal guardsmen who were as far above the regular army as the King was above the peasantry.

  "Release that man!" the King commanded.

  Most compiled with the royal order. A few hesitated, but they too gave in when they saw that the King's Own had reloaded their rifles and were no longer pointing the barrels into the air.

  Mikhial was pulled to safety.

  The King's Peace restored, the army took control, clearing people from the square, sending them homeward.

  For a moment, the King's and Mikhial's gazes caught, locked. A brief smile, a gentle nod and the King was away, followed by his royal guardsmen, followed a moment later by Goyezdanka.

  At the moment, Mikhial wanted nothing more than to fl
ee Belgrade, to be as far away from this still‑hostile crowd. He would return to his sylvan exile and sit quietly beneath the blaze of stars and contemplate the westernmost star in Orion's Belt.

  He heard a small sound distinct from the hubbub, turned and saw a child at his elbow. The lass gazed upward, not at him but at the stars.

  "Distant suns," she whispered.

  Yes, distant suns, he thought, and he prayed for one who sailed among those distant suns. A child's wonder, a child's belief, the whole universe opening for a child's future.

  Yes, Thrassa, he thought, the debt is paid.

  Fantasy writers usually give their tales a European cast, not from prejudice but because they, like readers, prefer the familiar to the unfamiliar, the comfortable to the uncomfortable. They would much rather have their hero battle a Wyvern than a Dilong. But it can be entertaining, and sometimes instructive, to immerse a familiar character in an unfamiliar realm. It also reminds readers that the ancient world was populated by more than Kelts, Romans, Greeks and Egyptians. One day at university an Ancient History instructor challenged our class to tell her what was going on in China when Alexander was trying to conquer the world. How about in Britain? In Rome? Writers, like history students, often focus so narrowly on specific regions and cultures that they forget the rest of the world is always there, even if you ignore it.

  Castaway Among the Dreamers

  A Tale From the Age of Bronze

  Blinded by darkness and surging sea, Kira gasped and broke the surface, only to be engulfed immediately. She choked, her lungs fighting to expel water, and the bubbles offer life flew upward. She struggled toward the surface, an arduous journey, weighted down as she was by bronze armor and weapons she was loath to abandon.

  Suddenly her flailing right hand touched a hard surface. Her other hand lashed out and made contact. She clambered up from the sea. One hand touched the other around the circumference of the rock—not a hospitable shore, but still a haven.

  Rain and wind lashed her and the waves sought to pry her from the rock, but Kira held fast, clinging with the tenacity of a barnacle. Through the tempest-blinding night Kira clung and prayed to the Triple Goddess.

  The fury of the storm gradually lessened, and Kira caught glimpses of the moon’s crescent through scudding clouds, a good omen. She heard waves breaking against a shore but, blinded by salt-spray and darkness, could not see anything.

  Before dawn, the storm waned, but sheeting rain persisted. In the grayness of first light, Kira saw a wild and rocky shore not three stadia distant.

  Muscles burning, Kira slipped from the rocky outcropping and paddled ashore. She encountered sand. Crawling beyond the surf, beyond the tide mark, she collapsed on the beach.

  A soft oblivion claimed Kira and eased her pain. Her mind, however, was tormented by dreams.

  Kira awoke from blood-red dreams and fears of dark pursuit to find herself bereft of armor, her weapon not by her side. She stirred in the darkness, but had strength enough only to shift her head. She was in a cave of sorts, no more than an indentation in the rocks. Beyond the cave was a sky awash with stars. A fire burned low. Near the fire was a vague shape, black and spindly, casting awkward shadows.

  Rest, said a voice, and it took Kira a moment to realize the voice had sounded within the darkness of her mind rather than in her ears. Rest and be healed.

  Kira allowed her eyes to close. She did not know where she was, but she did not feel the threat of danger.

  When Kira opened her eyes a second time, she no longer felt as weak, but still could not move about. The fire still burned low, and sweet scents crawled upward from it. The shadow moved from the far side of the fire. Strong, wiry hands lifted her head and a shallow bowl was brought to her lips. The liquid in the bowl was bitter.

  She gazed into brown eyes set into a black face, blacker than the jungle-people or sand-dwellers of Zinj, the Southern Land. The man crouched above her was old, his face lined with myriad valleys and his wooly hair almost totally white. His nose was very flat.

  When he removed the bowl from her lips, Kira asked in Bhugali, a trade language common to the sea empires east of the Southern Land, “Where am I? Who are you?”

  The old man laughed, though not unkindly.

  “You are fortunate to see anyone but the Great Lady of Night. I thought your stone was destined to stay on the river bottom.” Seeing the confusion that passed across Kira’s features, the old man said, “It seemed you would die.” He brushed a stray hair from Kira’s face. “I am Wabatu. You have been tossed on the shore of Sahu.”

  Sahu! Kira had heard rumors of the strange continent between the Southern Land and the Empire of the Sun, a realm of dream-walkers and weird beasts. Sailors said Sahu was perpetually bathed in a strange twilight, that bizarre dream magicks were worked there. But these were no more than campfire tales, and Kira had never met a sailor who had actually journeyed to Sahu.

  “I was bound for Annam,” Kira said, “aboard a Mhaldivian merchant ship. A storm struck and...”

  “I have seen Annam only in dream,” Wabatu said. “It is very distant from Sahu, Daughter of the Moon.”

  “Why do you call...”

  Then Kira remembered the glyph graven small upon her bronze breastplate, hidden beneath a joint of metal. It was no longer safe to be readily identified as a follower of the Old Religion. It was still good to carry a sign for protection, but subtly lest she be instantly identified by enemies of the Triple Goddess, whose number ever increased as men learned the working of iron and worshiped cruel gods.

  “Where is my armor?”

  “The clothes-that-gleam-in-the-sun are safe,” Wabatu said. “Do not worry. You are safe among the Khuabata.”

  Kira protested, tried to sit in the dimness of the cave, but again a soft voice came to her mind: Rest, Daughter of the Moon.

  Time passed vaguely for Kira. Both her waking and sleeping periods were troubled by visions, some washed with light, others wreathed with darkness and fear. In her dreams, a shadow presence hovered near, held back only by the light of a small fire and a bird with glinting talons.

  In two days, Kira was well enough to travel. It was a reassuring feeling to again don her armor, to feel her weapons at her side. She was a good two heads taller than her benefactor, Wabatu, who called himself an elder dreamer among the Khuabata tribe.

  “I am a guide,” Wabatu said. “It is our way to walkabout, but not without following a path shown by the dream-eye. We will join the Khuabata within five passages of the sun.”

  “I appreciate what you have done for me, Wabatu,” Kira said. “I owe you no small measure.”

  “A life is beyond measure; you owe nothing,” the wizened dreamer said. “Once your life was placed into my hands, I was obliged to do whatever I could to preserve your light. If I had not, my spirit would have been taken, and I would have jumped up white. Let us go. It is a long journey.”

  They traveled across a desolate landscape of rising monoliths and grey scrub. The sun beat down, but Kira was accustomed to hardship. There seemed to be no food here, but at eventide they stopped and Wabatu dug into the gritty earth to retrieve grubs and insects, which they ate both raw and roasted crisp.

  As the night wore on, Kira told her benefactor something of her journeys through the wild places of the world and the richness of the cities. She also told him of her patron, the Triple Goddess. She asked about the cities and empires of Sahu.

  Wabatu shook his wooly head.

  “There are no cities in Sahu,” he explained. “There was a time before the Dreamtime when giants ruled the land, setting up mighty cities and studying worlds beyond time and space. They were not like us at all.” He shrugged. “When we walkabout, we sometimes see the pitted stones of their cities, but they are the haunts of bad spirits, and we do not stay within sight of them for long.”

  Kira said, “I am a warrior. I only know the way of the sword. If I cannot live here by sword and wit I must go elsewhere.”

&nbs
p; “There is a place where the Bhugali come to trade,” Wabatu replied after a moment’s thought. “You would not have to wait long, but you would have to pay for your passage.”

  Kira thought of her purse, now at the bottom of the sea. But she had worked on ships or traded passage for her fighting skill. Her sword would be valued in waters where pirates were endemic. The Bhugali merchants prized nautical and fighting skills. And her wit was sharper than her sword, so she was not worried.

  Later, as Kira rested about the fire, she saw pale, ghostly shapes flit through the darkness. She thought they might be spirits of the dead, come up from the House of Dust, which had to have portals even in far Sahu but Wabatu said they were not.

  “They are dingoes,” he explained. “They are merely curious about us. They fear people, which is why they will never bark in the presence of man. They are harmless.”

  But Kira still slept on her sword anyway.

  She awoke alone to a gray dawn and a smoldering fire. She found Wabatu some distance away, seated at the edge of a calm, circular pool of water. Though he appeared to stare into the small pool, his eyes were closed. Kira did not approach lest she disturb some ritual of dawn. After several moments, he opened his eyes and looked up. His usually serene features were now etched with worry.

  “We must hurry to the encampment of the Khuabata,” he said. “We must journey during night, but it cannot be helped.”

  “What is the matter?” Kira asked.

  “They live in terror,” Wabatu explained. “A dream-beast has come among them, a bad spirit. Two women have died and a child has vanished. The people dream of darkness and blood.”

  “How do you know this?”

  He gestured toward the spring. “We dreamed.”

  They traveled briskly through the day. Kira saw weird animals native only to Sahu, pouched creatures that seemed to fly like the wind and crested lizards that ran upon two legs. But there was no time to stop and wonder at their strangeness. When shadows grew long the moon rose—the crescent moon—and Kira stopped to utter a brief prayer to the Triple Goddess, giving name to that facet of the Goddess which men feared most—Hecate.