by John Norman
Chapter 32
It was now in the depth of winter.
Too, it was late in the afternoon. The beast, the moisture from its breath visible in the chill air, lay indolently on the top of the snowy cliff, the snow melted beneath the warmth of its body, looking toward the village. Perhaps in such weather, and at such a time, one might have expected it to be snug in its lair, asleep, particularly as it had fed earlier, and well, but it could often be found where it was, and, secure in the luxury of its winter pelting, it was not in the least uncomfortable.
Something was coming toward the platform. It was a tiny, frail animal. It was perhaps shedding, strange in the winter, as its outer skin was a different color from its body, and seemed loose about it. Too, it walked in the unusual fashion which the beast, from the darkness of the forest, had remarked upon occasion before, amongst certain animals, on two legs. It interested the beast that the animal could maintain its balance with such ease, given so eccentric a posture. It was much superior in this to one of the other small bipedalian animals of the forest, the tree clinger, which would frequently return to the security of all fours. It did not, on the other hand, seem that it would be adept at climbing, or leaping from branch to branch, or swinging amongst them like a graceful, wingless bird. The footprints of the animal, tiny, and close together, were visible behind it in the snow, even in the half light. It walked as though it were in pain. It is cold, too, thought the beast. See how it clutches its skin about it, how it shivers. The beast doubted that it would be good to eat, at least that specimen. Too, as we have noted, it had recently fed. At such a time even fleet ones could graze within yards of it. The head of the animal, concealed in the strange skin, seemed large for its size.
The beast cocked its head to one side.
It was clear now. The little animal was holding to the string, or, at least, reaching out, from time to time, to touch it, as if to reassure itself that it was still there. Why could it not just look, wondered the beast. Did it expect it to be gone when it reached for it? Was it afraid of that? Where could it go? It was there. Perhaps it had always been there. Perhaps it would always be there. And, if not, what difference would it make? The string was not important to the beast, though it found it interesting. But the string, it seemed, was important to the other animal. It seemed afraid to let it go. Perhaps it needed the string. Perhaps it must hold on to the string, or perish, thought the beast. But ,if so, that is very unfortunate, for the string is very old, very thin, and worn. It might be broken, or taken away.
The beast continued to observe the approach of the small creature.
It must now be able to see me, thought the beast, at least if it looked up. I have made no effort to conceal my presence. But it does not look up.
Yes, the small animal below, making its way, shivering, through the snow, clearly now, was holding to the string, clutching it. Then, when it came to the end of it, it let it go and began, forelimbs outstretched, taking small, shuffling steps, to grope its way forward. This puzzled the beast. It is in the dark, it thought. But it is not in the dark, because it is still light. It is true it is becoming dark. The beast, of course, in its own case, had seldom been in the dark, except when it slept, or closed its eyes. Even with no moon there were the stars, and the beast had little difficulty in seeing by their light. It could see even in most of the passages it had explored in the cliffs, those strange squared passages so unlike a normal cave, and those rooms off the passages, some of which contained large boxes and strangely formed stones. When the stars were obscured by clouds, it was more difficult, but even then there was normally some light, filtering through the clouds, and, too, one could tell much by smell, by hearing the currents of air moving about objects, by noting the effect of drafts on the hair of one’s body.
The small creature had now come to the platform, and had put out its forelimbs, touching it.
Its presence there, of course, from the point of view of the beast, was not an intrusion. Only certain presences would have counted as intrusions, providing occasions for activity. Many animals came and went in the beast’s territory, and in the thousands of subterritories, maintained by other animals, within his territory, without concerning it. What did it matter, so to speak, that ants might be found in the world of wolves? They did not count. The beast was even fond of a small git, which it occasionally watched, which nested near one of the posts of the platform.
“Are you there?” called a small, shrill voice from below, that of the tiny creature which had groped its way forward to the platform. How strange that high, thin, shrill voice is, thought the beast. If a creature is so small, it thought, better perhaps that it be silent.
“Are you here?” called the small animal.
Suddenly the beast rose to its feet, disturbed. The hair on the back of its neck rose up, like the collar of a cloak behind it. Its fur shook, as if casting off water. It had, for the first time, realized suddenly, comprehending it consciously, that these noises it heard, diminutive, and pathetic, but in their way as real as thunder and rushing water, not like the puzzling, mysterious noises in its mind, those which the ear could only seem to hear, were, like the noises within, intelligible. They could be understood, and it understood them. Such things were words, and they came from without, not from within.
The small creature was now looking up. It must surely see him. Perhaps it had heard, above it, the scratching on the rock, as it had sprung up, and the snapping of its hide and fur, like leather shaken in the wind.
“Are you there?” called the tiny voice.
The beast resumed its recumbent posture, uneasily. It must put such things from its mind. There were mysteries enough. What had such things to do with food or drink, or shelter, or such things? But it was odd, and unsettling, to hear the noises of the mind, or things like them, coming not from within, but from without, from the outside, in recognizable form, and from so odd and deformed a creature as stood below.
“Are you there?” called the creature.
The beast now rose again to its feet. It was agitated, for this presence was not as harmless as it might seem. Somehow, in one way or another, it seemed to threaten its peace, perhaps even the foundations of its world. I am angry, thought the beast. One bite could finish such a creature, it thought. It made its way, lightly, down the cliff toward the platform. Gently it padded across the platform. Then it crouched down, belly low, on the platform, tail lashing behind it. But I am sated, it thought. Why had it come down? It was angry. But, too, it was curious. And, too, it was a little afraid, because there was some threatening linkage, it knew, between this thing, this pathetic, insignificant, tiny thing, and the strange thoughts, and the strange dreams, with which for the past months it had been troubled.
“Are you there?” whispered the small creature.
The beast looked at it. Its body was very small, but the head, comparatively, was large, or at least large for the body. Would it not be heavy, that head, to be carried by such a body? The head had a tiny face, much too small for it, much like the faces of some of the little, loose-skinned, two-legged creatures it had seen in the forest. But the back of the head was large. In the tiny face, seemingly lost in the larger head, there were two holes. No eyes gleamed out from those holes. They were empty.
“Are you there?” whispered the tiny thing.
The beast growled, menacingly.
The small creature thrust an object onto the platform, and then turned about, and, as it could, feeling its way, fled. The beast saw it reach the string, and grasp it, and then hurry away.
The beast, with its teeth, and holding it down with one paw, tore open the object on the platform, and smelled it. It could not eat such stuff. It lifted it up, and shook it, scattering grains about.
It looked after the small animal, which had now disappeared through the trees. How odd, it thought, that such a thing, and others like it, could live in the forest.
It then stood on the platform.
Some small birds aligh
ted on the platform, and, here and there, and some almost at its feet, pecked at the material which had been flung about.
Chapter 33
With a certain form of throat, and oral cavity, a certain type of tongue, and a certain arrangement of teeth, of course, it is not easy to reproduce many sounds which would be the more natural and appropriate issuances of a different form of apparatus. This obvious fact makes clear the importances of translation mechanisms, of one or another level of sophistication, throughout the galaxy. Some of these are responsive to auditory inputs, and others, of course, to visual inputs, and others, yet, to inputs such as the traces of complex chemical exudates. But, invariably, aside from certain constructed devices and certain marvels of biochemical engineering, speech was an overlaid function, utilizing an apparatus obviously developed for other purposes, such as holding, tearing, grinding, tasting, swallowing, breathing, and such. On the other hand, amongst organisms utilizing a vocal apparatus, as opposed to those utilizing the modulation of wing speeds, the rubbing of chitinous limbs, frictions amongst adjacent platings, the articulation of patterns of moisture, condensing in cold air, expelled from blow holes, the secretion of chemicals, and such, it was usually possible for one organism to produce sounds which, once certain adjustments were made, could be accepted as surrogates of others. This is particularly easy to do, if the throat, for example, has been prepared, or altered, in a certain way.
Since that winter day, several weeks ago, the beast had been much disturbed by its insights into its own unusual capacities, which seemed to have been acquired in its new habitat, as, in its deepest memories, and even in its dreams, it could not recall them from the old home.
It was not at all pleased with many of the sounds it made, as they were quite different from the sounds which came to it from time to time in his mind, and in the unusual dreams, when he spoke such sounds, and in another form. Indeed, it often put such things from itself, impatiently, and contemptuously. Why should it not amuse itself by trying to chirp like birds or squeak like gits? But the riddles remained, and the curiosity remained, and so, on the cliffs, and in the forests, it would, from time to time, concern itself with such things.
One day, on the cliffs, it looked out, toward the village. “What am I?” it asked. It heard that sound. It was outside, outside, and yet it was not too unlike the sound from inside, that which the ear could only seem to hear.
The success of this effort, its first in such ranges of endeavor, far from exhilarating the beast, terrified it, and it put such experiments far from itself for several days. It had no business with such nonsense. Such things were not for it. But then, of course, perhaps they were, for it was no longer confident of what it was. It was angry. In the old home it had never encountered such problems. They had not arisen.
It may have been toward the end of winter, when the small creature again approached the platform.
This time the beast, having perceived its approach, came down to the platform, and sat on the platform, awaiting it.
The small creature, so tiny, so ugly, eyeless, the face so tiny in the larger head, put the tiny bag of grain on the platform, almost at the feet of the beast.
He looked up, although he could not see. “Are you there?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the beast.
Chapter 34
Through the dusk of the winter evening the small figure trudged back toward the village, holding to the string. Behind him, like a gigantic shadow, and as noiseless as one, came the beast.
The small figure, slowly, carefully, departing from the string, his hands outstretched, crossed the clearing. In a few moments, he touched palings, and, feeling his way about, came to the gate.
The beast remained back from the gate. It sat some thirty or forty yards back.
There seemed soon, in spite of the lateness of the day, and the nature of the season, much movement, much agitation, within the palings. Lights moved back and forth within them. Sitting there, it could smell smoke from fires within the village. It did not care for that smell.
The beast asked itself why it had come. What could there be here of interest, or importance, to it? It had, of course, followed the small figure.
It did not understand the village, which seemed a poor lair, or nest. It did not find the inhabitants of that place, which it had observed, from time to time, here and there, from the darkness of the forest, of great interest. They were surely amongst the most miserable and weakest, and worthless, creatures of the forest. Their jaws, and teeth, were small. They lacked claws. They could not fly. They were poor climbers, poor runners. There was little to be remarked about them, other than the ease with which they could maintain their balance on two legs. That was impressive, like the unusual form of locomotion practiced by certain amphibians at the edges of streams and ponds. To be sure, standing on the hind legs did raise their heads higher than they would otherwise be, and this might be of some advantage in looking about oneself, particularly if one had inferior hearing and smell. All in all, the beast held the small creatures in contempt. They were edible, of course. But it was confident it would prefer the fleet ones, or even stealthy ones.
Why have I come here, once more the beast asked itself. But, in its heart, it knew. It had come because of the thoughts, the riddles, the mysteries, the dreams, the troublings. These small creatures hiding in their lair, or nest, were surely, on the whole, of little interest. They were small and weak, and slow and awkward. They could not fly. They could not climb well, or run well. But they did do something that the other creatures of the forest did not do, something that was, in its way, more impressive than climbing well, or running well, and more impressive, too, than the possession of an upright posture. They spoke.
Have I been here before, the beast asked itself? And strange memories occurred to it, of giddy sensations, of swingings about, like a tree clinger, but without grasping a branch, of flying, like a bird, but without wings, of seeing trees, it seemed, from the top, not from the ground, of grating, clanking sounds, of a ground it could not claw through, even less than stone, of hard, narrow, closely set trees, of stuff like the floor, through which it could not press, through which it could not bite, through which it could scarcely see.
The beast growled, in anger.
The gate to the palisade opened a bit and some of the small creatures, Pons, emerged. Some of these held torches. The beast lowered itself to its belly, tail lashing. It remembered, from somewhere, such lights, and others, powerful, from above, seeming to emerge from terrible sounds, like beams darting back and forth through the trees.
The eyeless one was thrust toward the beast and, slowly, foot by foot, while his fellows remained by the gate, approached it, hands outstretched.
The beast growled once, to guide it.
It growled again, in a moment, menacingly, to halt it. It was close enough.
But the figure took another step forward.
The beast backed away a step, belly low, growling warningly.
Again the figure came forward. It did not seem afraid. This puzzled the beast. This was the first time it had been approached in such a fashion. It snarled, warningly. But it would not give ground further. It opened its jaws. It lifted a paw from the ground, in its agitation the claws springing out. But the figure, perhaps as it could not see, came forward still. It came forward with small, slow steps, reaching out. Again the beast snarled, menacingly, warningly. But the figure continued to approach. And then the figure was beside it, standing beside it, at the very side of its jaws, which were close to the ground. The beast did not understand this. It did not understand this, at all. Why had it not killed it? Kill it, thought the beast. But it did not kill it, as easy as that would have been. Somehow, not understanding why, it was permitting this insignificant creature to stand near it. He felt its small hands at its muzzle. The beast’s ears flattened back. It growled. But it was permitting this creature to touch it. The small figure then, weeping, embraced, as he could, the head of the beast, and
laid his own head against the beast’s head. By this the beast was much troubled. It understood little, or nothing. How was it that it had permitted this? How strange this all was, how unlike the old home! Why had it not killed this thing? Why did it not kill it even now, or, if this seemed impossible, back away from it, or run from it? The small creature held to the beast, sobbing. The Pons, seeing this, gasped, thrilled, and looked wildly to one another.
The beast heard, from somewhere in the vicinity of the gate, the voice of one of the small creatures:
We love you, father.