The Well of The Worlds

by Henry Kuttner

  You couldn’t plan too far ahead under circumstances like these. There was too much that was totally unknown. It was always possible that Nethe might lean out of the next window he passed, knock him over the head and loot his unconscious body. All he could do was go warily, watch the shadows, and trust that providence would defend the right. Providence in this world seemed to be most unfairly on the side of wrong, though that was a matter of viewpoint.

  The key was the Firebird. He didn’t dare keep it on him or hide it.

  If only Nethe would stay still, he thought irritably, pausing again as the humming veered erratically in his hood. He waited in the wet, deserted street, under a lighted window behind which a baby was crying drearily, until Nethe seemed to halt again and send out the summons more steadily. From beyond a door a dog burst into hysterical yaps as Sawyer passed and scratched in a fury against the lower panels.

  As it happened, the same shrill dog gave him his first clue that he was perhaps being followed. The dog subsided after he had passed, only to burst into sudden fresh hysteria when Sawyer was a hundred feet away. He stepped into the deepest shadow he could find and looked back suspiciously. But the shadows gave shelter to his follower too, if he had one, and he saw only the empty street, heard only the furious, muffled yappings and the assault of scratching nails upon a door.

  He went on after awhile, because there seemed no alternative. At least, he himself was totally invisible as long as he stayed in the shadows. He kept a careful watch behind him after that.

  The faceted thing that linked him to Alper was grotesquely like a third ear laid flat against his very thoughts. What ever he said to Nethe, when he met her, he would be saying to Alper too if Alper chose to listen. And whatever Nethe said, Alper would hear. They could make no bargain in which Alper was not a partner. Always supposing, of course, that Alper let him live, once be awoke and found Sawyer and the Firebird gone. But that was an occupational risk Swayer could not avoid. He could only ignore it, and wait.

  Nethe’s summons came steadily for about fifteen minutes from the same direction, and Sawyer walked fast, keeping an alert watch, hoping this time to come within earshot of her before she shot off on another erratic flight.

  Journey’s end came very suddenly.

  The signal hummed strong and clear. Sawyer turned a corner and stopped so suddenly his feet skidded on the wet street. He drew back into a doorway and peered out, cursing Nethe silently. For before him a broad, lighted thoroughfare led up to and ended abruptly at a great fortified gate. High stone walls stretched left and right from it. This was clearly the very edge of the city, and for the first time Sawyer realized it was a city that expected trouble from outside.

  The gate was high, and closed with enormous iron doors. On the wall-top Khom guards leaned, keeping an intent watch outward, toward some invisible source of danger in the night. Other guards, Khom in metal-studded tunics and carrying what were probably weapons but looked more like tubas, patrolled the gate.

  One of the Isier, looming like a god above the short humans, was exchanging words loftily with a Khom officer. There was a great deal of orderly activity, and Sawyer’s uneasiness increased. For the summons in his ears seemed to come from directly beyond the gate, from out there in the dark.

  Were the Isier searching for Nethe too? What would happen if Sawyer stepped boldly out and handed the Firebird over to this supercilious godling? What, on the other hand, would happen to him if he went blindly in answer to Nethe’s summons? He struggled with ambivalent confusion for a while. But if he surrendered now, he would be at the mercy of the unknown. Nethe’s reactions at least he could predict to some slight degree. Cautiously he withdrew down the alley. What he wanted now was an unguarded stretch of this wall.

  He found it at the end of a quiet alley, got over the wall by way of a handy shed roof, and came down lightly upon wet grass in darkness on the other side. He seemed to be standing in open country, for he could make out rolling treetops, lashed by rain, and a very faint line where sky and land met between two clumps of trees.

  A pinpoint of light flashed and went out again near the trees.

  “Here I am,” Nethe’s voice said impatiently. “Come on. Hurry! Straight toward me and you’re all right.”

  Cautiously, taking his time, Sawyer set out toward the light. Wet grass was slippery underfoot. The robe he wore was waterproof, but trickles of rain beat in his face under the edges of the hood and wind whipped its folds around his wet legs. He could make out only a dim, pale blur of a face under the trees. Between the tossing branches a brighter luminescence glowed faintly, as if a large body of water stretched away from a nearby shore, gathering all the light in the sky to its reflecting surface.

  When he was about twenty feet away, Nethe said, “Wait,” and was silent for a moment while he stood there with the wind whipping the cloak around his legs and the rain streaming in his face.

  Then Nethe laughed, a soft, low, triumphant sound.

  “All right,” she said. “Run!”

  Something about that laugh, and the tone she spoke in, rang a warning bell far back in Sawyer’s mind. He moved forward obediently, but he did not run. He felt a strange sort of tingling caution all over his body, as if the nerve-endings in his skin were desperately alert to catch the first hint of a danger he suspected but could not identify. For some senseless reason he found himself counting his strides as he moved rapidly forward toward the trees.

  Seven long steps thudded softly on grass and solid ground. The eighth came down on empty space and he pitched forward into nothingness. Above him the low laugh sounded again, gloating with triumph, and footsteps drummed rapidly on turf as Nethe hurried forward to watch him fall.

  VII

  With desperate, rapid clarity, like a man drowning, Sawyer took in at one whirling glance what lay below him. In one burst of understanding he saw almost every detail of what lay below.

  The luminous void beyond the trees was not an ocean. It was an empty abyss of air. The trees rimmed what must be the farthest outpost of solid land on this outer shell of creation where the city stood. But below, infinitely far below, in infinitely wide space, swam another planet. Clouds floated milkily in a pale silver sky. Some of them must be storm-clouds, for they were ominously black, and drifting close below him.

  He had fallen through some break in the soil a little way inland from the crumbling edges of the world. Nethe must have lined herself carefully up with that well-opening to infinity, deliberately urged him to run so that he would be certain to pitch free, with no chance to catch himself.

  And for an endless, curdling moment of sheer panic he did fall free. Then something whipped by his face and with the drowning man’s instant reflex he clenched both hands into the netted mass that had lashed against him as he dropped.

  The fall broke. With a neck-wrenching jerk, momentum snapped him around in a wide pendulum-swing. Far below, the distant world seemed to lurch up toward its northern horizon, climbing half the sky, only to fall back again sickeningly in the opposite direction. Sawyer shut his eyes and clawed both hands deep into the saving nets that still snapped and crackled terrifyingly, letting him down with little sudden jerks as more of their filaments gave beneath his weight. With infinite caution he opened his eyes. So precarious was his support that the very act of lifting his lids might, he felt, put a fatal added weight upon the thing which held him.

  Now he could see. A dim, luminous glow filled the whole vast, incredible emptiness over which he dangled. Straight down under his swinging feet the distant world floated. This net he hung on seemed to be an interlaced mesh of tree roots. The shell of soil must be very thin here, so near the edge. The trees grew partly in soil and partly in air, their roots dangling in the void. There hung a little distance away, just within reach, if he dared reach, thicker and still stronger strands. But at the moment it seemed to him that it would be absolutely fatal to move a muscle.

  A little shower of pebbles rattled down on his head and s
houlders. Greatly daring, he tilted his head back a little. Over the crumbling edge of this air-well down which he had fallen, Nethe’s bright, dangerous face peered hopefully. He saw disappointment cloud it. He still lived.

  She said, “Oh,” in a rather dashed voice. Sawyer said nothing. He dared not speak. He was measuring the distance to the stronger roots, and wondering what would happen if he supported his whole weight on the meshes he held with one hand while he stretched for the security of the larger ones. He thought he would fall.

  Nethe said, “Alper?” in an uncertain voice. Sawyer did not answer. She said again, “Alper? Is it you?”

  Sawyer felt the soft burning of the Firebird against his side, and his frozen mind began slowly to make plans again. It seemed ridiculous to suppose that he had any future to plan for, but the human mind is a resilient creation.

  Nethe said, amid a shower of pebbles as she leaned farther out, “It isn’t Alper. You made a mistake, didn’t you? Sprang another man’s trap.” She laughed. “Shall I help you up?”

  He said nothing even then. He knew she would not, probably could not, help him. If anything saved him, it must be himself. Already his arm-muscles were complaining and he knew he could hold on only a little longer. He began very, very cautiously to swing himself on the crackling roots, starting a new pendulum motion that with luck might carry him within reach of the strong taproot dangling an arms-length away.

  “If you brought the Firebird,” Nethe said persuasively from above, “I’ll help you up. Have you got it? Oh, you must have it. You’re no fool. Hand it up and I’ll pull you back to solid ground again.”

  He did not glance up. Now he was swinging quite perceptibly, and the roots were holding. Most of them, anyhow. He gave himself one last reckless swing and with the strength of despair launched himself through emptiness straight toward those heavy strands that could save him, for a moment or two, if he caught both hands about them just right.

  The void swam dizzily below him. The roots flew past his face. Then with a satisfying, noisy smack his two groping palms struck together around the thick taproot and he hung swaying and shivering, his eyes shut and his cheek pressed hard against the fringed and hairy surface of the root.

  A gasp sounded above. More pebbles showered. Then several clods fell spinning into the luminous abyss and Nethe was heard to swear musically in her own tongue and to scramble as if for support. Sawyer laughed. He felt much better now. He had little reason for confidence, but at least he could depend on the strength of his support.

  “Are you all right?” Nethe called from above. “I tell you, if you’ll hand up the Firebird I’ll save you. Don’t you want to be saved? I meant to get rid of Alper, not you.”

  She talked on, her voice showing a hint of panic, but Sawyer had a new task to hand and he closed his ears temporarily to her. He had caught the dangling root between clenched knees and ankles, like a rope, freeing one hand. Now he was scanning the overhang of the soil a little way from his face, out of which the roots dangled. A round, smooth hole, like a burrow, had attracted his notice and a dim, vengeful idea was taking shape in his mind. He put out his free hand and thrust an exploring finger into the burrow.

  There was a scrabbling inside. He took his finger out, and a small, beady-eyed head followed curiously. Two tiny, hand-like paws clutched the mouth of the burrow and a small, toothy creature like a squirrel, its fur fluffy and barred like an owl’s feathers, peered out at him with an overpowering interest. Clearly this was an entirely new experience in the life of barred squirrels. It turned its head alertly to one side and then the other, observing the dangling man with great intentness.

  Sawyer chirruped to it. This threw the squirrel into an unexpected panic. It whirled in the narrow space of the burrow, flashed a large, feathery tail in his face and prepared to scramble for its life. It misgauged. The frantic hind feet skidded on emptiness and for a moment both squirrel and man hung supended in empty air.

  Sawyer put up a hand and pushed the little creature gently back into its burrow. The tiny, cold feet kicked desperately against his palm for a moment. Then it got purchase and vanished up its burrow in a shower of crumbling earth.

  Sawyer craned to squint after it.

  There was a rock of about the right size half-embedded in the overhang a foot away. He worked it loose and fitted it into the burrow, pushing it up as far as it would go. Then he reached into his pocket, moving with great caution, and pulled out the golden bar which was the Firebird.

  It was warm against his fingers. It glinted faintly in the grey light of the abyss.

  He pressed it gently and felt the bars move apart in his fingers. For an instant the dazzling wings sprang open between thumb and forefinger, very near his face. A light like sunshine bathed him, showing up every glittering grain of soil in the overhang so near his head. And a wonderful fount of sheer strength poured through him gloriously…

  “The Firebird!” Nethe cried, above him and out of sight. She must be able to see the radiance though she could not see the device itself. There was a soft thud as she threw herself flat on the lip of the shaft. “You have it!” she cried. “I see the fire! Give it to me and I’ll save you!”

  But Sawyer even in his extremity knew better than that. He dared not let the Firebird stay open more than the few seconds necessary to replenish his failing strength. He did not know what dangers lay latent in it. He had a horrid vision of the winged Firebirds swarming about him out of nowhere, out of some Gateway opened in infinity, while he hung helpless to fight them off.

  He snapped the bright wings shut. The fountain of energy died, but that pouring of sheer power seemed to have stored itself in his nerves and muscles, for he felt marvelously refreshed, no longer hungry or thirsty.

  At any rate, he thought, Nethe was not going to get the Firebird.

  He had been looking for a safe hiding place. Now that it was too late, he had found the ideal spot. He pushed the closed golden bar of the talisman into the burrow, digging it firmly into the soil against the rock. Then he found a second rock and jammed it tightly in after the first.

  After that, he tried to climb the rope-like root, but the extra energy he had gained brought him only up to the edge of the overhang which began to crumble precariously as he dangled, the root slipping and jolting. He stopped climbing and simply hung on till the dirt stopped showering past him. Above him, there was more of an opening now, and he thought he caught a glimpse of Nethe.

  Pretty problem.

  Certainly he couldn’t hold on forever here. But if he fell, she wouldn’t get the Firebird. Its hiding place might be precarious. It too might fall. The squirrel might tunnel around the rock, guided by its insatiable curiosity, and become the wealthiest squirrel in creation by finding the Firebird for itself. In any case Nethe would not get it.

  So, he thought grimly, he was in a position to bargain. He turned gingerly on his root and craned up the air-well.

  “Nethe,” he called. “Can you hear me?”

  Her brilliant face appeared like magic over the grassy verge. The grass dripped, and showers of rain drove now and then down the open well and blew in gusts past Sawyer’s cheek.

  “If you can get me up,” he told Nethe, “I’ll bargain with you.”

  She stretched out a demanding hand.

  “I don’t trust you. Give me the Firebird first.”

  Sawyer sighed. “All right. You’ll have to stretch a little farther, though. Here, reach!”

  The smooth, narrow, subtly distorted hand waved blindly a foot above his face. Sawyer laughed aloud and seized her around the wrist with a desperate grip. He pulled, one threatening, experimental tug.

  “Got you now!” he said. “Pull me up or we both go down.”

  The scream of sheer fury that rang out from her just above his head made him jump convulsively. In the same instant the arm he held lashed into frenzies of writhing in a wild effort to shake him off. It was like holding a twisting serpent. The root he hung upon swayed a
nd jolted, began ominously to creak. His own teeth were rattling with the violence of the struggle. He hung on for dear life, shouting above the furious, hissing curses she was gasping out as she fought:

  “Stop it! Nethe, stop it! Hold still or we’re both done for! Pull me up!”

  “I can’t pull you up, you fool,” Nethe said wildly.

  “That’s interesting, in view of the bargain you were trying to make.” Sawyer told her, locking his grip harder around the lashing wrist. “Now—I come up or you come down.”

  He heard the breath hiss through her teeth. He smiled up into the brilliant face straining down above him, almost too bright to look at because of the blaze in her large, inhuman eyes and the look of incandescence behind the fierce grimace. Looking at her, his heart sank a little. He thought. “No one with a face like that could ever give in. She won’t. She’d rather die.”

  “I’m slipping,” he told her in an almost conversational voice. “This root’s slippery and my hand’s sweating. Last chance, Nethe.”

  The baleful eyes flashed at him, flashed past him into the abyss. The root was slipping through his fingers faster and faster. Nethe slid farther over the edge, hissing furiously. She was half-way over the verge now, and the luminous earrings swung forward like tiny lamps to light their way to destruction. Then Sawyer felt the root quiver between his fingers, heard it snap.

  “Well, it was an interesting life, while it lasted,” he said mildly, looking up into Nethe’s face.

  Then the root broke, and for a dizzying second they swung suspended, held only by Nethe’s furious grip on some other anchoring root invisible to Sawyer. A look he could not read crossed her face fleetingly. He saw that she gave one downward glance into the abyss. He saw the look of brief, half-incredulous, exultant triumph light her blazing face.

  Nethe laughed—and let go.