Gods of the Greataway

by Coney, Michael G.

  GODS OF THE GREATAWAY

  Michael Coney

  www.sfgateway.com

  Enter the SF Gateway …

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

  Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

  Welcome to the SF Gateway.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  Prologue: Starquin the Almighty

  The Return of Manuel

  The Dreamers in the Dome

  Kamaha the Indolent

  The Home of Ana’s Eyes

  The Small Rainbow

  The Voyage Without an End

  The Girl Called Kelina

  The Story of the Blind Craftsman

  Saga of the Great Blue

  Launch of the Star Kingdom

  The Poet

  The Lost Neotenite

  Creatures of the People Planet

  The Beast with Two Mouths

  The Day of Destruction

  The Legend of Lost Loanna

  Arrival of the Triad

  Horst’s Stones

  Selena’s Choice

  What Happened in the Year 180,285

  To Catch a Bale Wolf

  Legends of Dream Earth

  On the Skytrain

  The Crash

  The Lost Army

  Departure of the Pirates

  The First Battle with the Bale Wolves

  Afthermath

  Return to Dream Earth

  The Triad Enlists Help

  The Second Battle with the Bale Wolves

  In Lord Shout’s Room

  Horse Day

  Manuel Talks with God Again

  Daedalus and Icarus

  The Hate Bombs

  La Bruja

  Website

  Also by Michael G. Coney

  Dedication

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  Shake hands with the dragon and smile at the snake,

  And jest with the Madmen Three.

  But beware of the Mute with his shovel and rake,

  He’ll quarry the soul out of thee.

  — Song of the Locomotive

  PROLOGUE: STARQUIN THE ALMIGHTY

  Millennia ago Starquin visited the Solar System. Because he is huge — some say bigger than the Solar System itself — he could not set foot on Earth personally. Yet events here were beginning to interest him, and he wanted to observe more closely.

  So he sent down extensions of himself, creatures fashioned after Earth’s dominant life-form. In one of Earth’s languages they became known as Dedos, or Fingers of Starquin. Disguised, they mingled with Mankind.

  We know this now, here at the end of Earth’s time. The information is all held in Earth’s great computer, the Rainbow. The Rainbow will endure so long as Earth exists, watching, listening, recording and thinking. I am an extension of the Rainbow, just as the Dedos are extensions of Starquin. My name is Alan-Blue-Cloud.

  It is quite possible you cannot see me but are aware of me only as a voice speaking to you from a desolate hillside, telling you tales from the Song of Earth. I can see you, the motley remains of the human race, however. You sit there with your clubs and you chew at your roots, entranced and half-disbelieving as I sing the Song — and in your faces are signs of the work of your great geneticist, Mordecai N. Whirst. Catlike eyes here, broad muzzles there, all the genes of Earth’s life, expertly blended, each having its purpose. Strong people, adaptable people, people who have survived.

  The story I will tell is about people who were not so strong. It is perhaps the most famous in the whole Song of Earth, and it tells of three simple human beings involved in a quest who unwittingly became involved in much greater events concerning the almighty Starquin himself. It is a story of heroism and love, and it ends in triumph — and it will remind the humans among you of the greatness that was once yours.

  HERE BEGINS THAT PART OF

  THE SONG OF EARTH KNOWN TO MEN AS

  THE LOST ISLANDS OF POLYSITIA

  where the Triad enlists help

  and sails eastward

  to lands beyond the Rainbow’s ken

  THE RETURN OF MANUEL

  The quiet boy was back.

  Ellie saw him first, on a dull, windy day when the guanaco clouds swept in from the sea, promising rain with every gust. He stood at the rim of the tide, his cloak of pacarana skins flapping, ignoring the waves that rushed past him.

  “Manuel! Hi, Manuel!”

  She clambered down the bank to the beach, ran barefoot across the sand and arrived at his side, breathless. “Manuel,” she said again. “You’re back.”

  At last he looked at her. “Hello, Ellie.” His eyes were different. There was a remnant of a vision in there, so that he didn’t see her with all his mind. And he looked taller, his barrel-chested figure towering over her. Suddenly she was a little frightened of him, and her half-formed plan didn’t seem such a good idea.

  She tried it nevertheless. “While you were away, we had some high tides. Your shack was damaged.” She indicated the tumbledown structure huddled under the brow of the low cliff.

  “I’ll soon put that right.”

  “Perhaps you should stay in the village for a while, Manuel. We have room in our house, if you like.”

  “I’ll manage, thanks.” He’d turned away again and was gazing at the horizon so intently that she looked, too, but could see nothing.

  “It’s that girl, isn’t it,” she said unhappily.

  “What girl?”

  “I saw her around here — you can’t fool me. A skinny girl with next to no clothes on. And sometimes with your clothes on. She looked as though she’d expire at the sight of a snake cloud. She stayed with you for days. And then you both went away. Where have you been, Manuel? I … I’ve missed you.” Her head spun a little. She didn’t know if it was because of the oxygen that the wind was bringing from the sea or the nearness of Manuel.

  Manuel said, mostly to himself, “Belinda’s out there somewhere. But how can she be? There are no islands — the Rainbow said so.”

  “The rainbow? What rainbow?”

  “It’s a big computer. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Come and stay with me, Manuel. Please.”

  He looked at her properly now and s
miled. “Maybe. I’ll walk you back to the village, anyway. I have to go up to the church. I need a few answers.”

  “You won’t get them from Dad Ose.” Ellie laughed breathlessly, happy now that he had half promised.

  “I’ll get them from God,” said Manuel, and Ellie’s smile died.

  *

  The village was preparing for the forthcoming Horse Day celebrations. Fat Chine, the village chief, strutted to and fro, supervising the seamstresses who worked on the bodies of the symbolic combatants — the Horse and the Snake. Nearby, the head of the Snake was being painted in bright and threatening colors, having been formed of clay and baked in a pit. The head of the Horse required little attention. The Horse was the hero of the celebration and the same head was used from year to year. The Snake was the villain and always lost the battle and was destroyed.

  Subconsciously, each villager cherished the hope that one year the latest version of the Snake would prove to be of such a terrible aspect that it would put the Horse to flight and provide the spice of variety to the festivities, but this hadn’t happened yet. Dad Ose, the priest, hoped it never would. He had quite enough difficulty persuading the villagers of the superiority of Good over Evil without their wretched little pagan ceremony adding to the confusion.

  Meanwhile Insel, the most devout of the villagers, to the extent of being totally cloud-struck, lay on his back praying to the heavens for good weather.

  Horse clouds keep blowing from out of the sea,

  Make easy breathing for you and for me.

  Manuel waved to the villagers as he plodded up the hill to the church, and they waved back, if half-heartedly. They were a little afraid of him. He had curious powers and strange friends — and an unwholesome lack of respect for their leader, Chine. For such a young man he was enviably self-possessed. Tongues were clicked in disapproval as Ellie left his side with obvious reluctance and approached the village huts.

  “You’ll come to a bad end, my girl,” shrilled old Jinny. “The Snake will come for you one day, mark my words!”

  “I can outrun you to the Life Caves any day, old woman.”

  “Not if you’re dreaming on the beach like a lovesick llama, making eyes at that young goat!.”

  Meanwhile, the young goat himself, mind full of wonders, was nearing the ancient sandstone church. The priest huddled against the lee wall, sheltered from the wind, gazing at the mountains and practicing his daily Inner Think.

  The fabric of my body is replenishing itself, he told himself, absently fingering an ancient religious symbol in the form of a faceted piece of rock, which hung around his neck. Each cell is regenerating even as I think, and I shall therefore never, never die. The Clock that tells my body to age is stilled, stilled.

  If the villagers had known of Dad Ose’s daily practice, they would have pointed the finger of ridicule. So he had kept his secret, imagining it to be a matter of exceptional spiritual control over the baser bodily processes, and certainly not a thing the villagers would have understood.

  In fact, the explanation of Dad Ose’s longevity — he was now 496 years old — would have alarmed the priest himself. There were tiny alien parasites within his chromosomes, known to an earlier age as Macrobes, and they didn’t want to die. Since the priest was determinedly celibate, it was unlikely that he would ever sire descendants for the Macrobes to attach themselves to. So it was in the aliens’ best interests to keep Dad Ose alive — forever, if necessary.

  “Dad Ose!”

  The priest sighed, recognizing the voice. Manuel was back from his wanderings and had come to pester and embarrass him again. Mentally releasing each body cell from his care, he stood, dusted off his robe and turned to greet the young man.

  “So you’ve come back. Did you find your girl, Manuel?”

  “No, I didn’t. I met a lot of people and … things, but I didn’t find Belinda. I know she’s out there somewhere, but I must have been looking in the wrong place.”

  “So what are you going to do now? Continue your search?” asked the priest hopefully.

  “Yes, but first I must talk with God. Do you mind if I use your church for a moment?”

  On a previous occasion when Manuel had made such a request, Dad Ose had become involved in a futile argument. Now he had learned his lesson. “Certainly, Manuel,” he said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Thank you.” Manuel passed through into the dim interior and Dad Ose followed, smiling to himself. He knew what was going to happen next. Manuel — that naive young fool — walked confidently to the vestry door and addressed the Almighty as though he were a friendly neighbor.

  “Are you there, God?”

  And Dad Ose’s smile broadened as the reply came: “I am here, Manuel. How can I help you?” It was a quiet voice, little more than a whisper, but Dad Ose was close enough to hear it. On the previous occasion he had not been close enough, and had, to his shame, panicked when it appeared that Manuel was listening to a ghostly voice that he, the priest, in his own church, could not hear.

  “I did everything you said, God,” said Manuel, “but I didn’t find Belinda. Once I thought I had, but it turned out she was just a figment of my imagination. I went to a place called Dream Earth, where if you wish for something, it happens. And, well … I wished, without realizing it. And there she was, just as I remembered her. Then she was gone. Will I ever see her again?” His voice became urgent. “I have to know!”

  “You will see Belinda again,” came the whisper.

  “When?”

  “In the Ifalong, when the Triad is reunited.”

  “The Triad? That’s what you call me and Zozula and the Girl, isn’t it?”

  “In the Ifalong, which is all the happentracks of what you call the future, the minstrels will sing of you, Manuel. The Triad will become famous throughout all the human peoples, right down to the Dying Years. They will sing of the Artist and the Oldster and the Girl-with-no-Name, who will be heroes in their spoken-and-sung history — the Song of Earth. You will defeat the Bale Wolves and remove the Hate Bombs, thus ending the Ten Thousand Years’ Incarceration of Starquin, the Almighty Five-in-One.”

  “Well, fine. But when will I see Belinda?”

  “Very soon, after the Triad is reunited.”

  “Are you telling me I have to join up with those two again? The Girl … well, she’s fine. But Zozula is a pompous old ass.”

  “On many happentracks the Triad will not be reunited. The Girl will remain a neotenite for the rest of her life, Zozula will die in the service of the Dome — and you, Manuel, will never see Belinda again.”

  “Happentracks are all the possible ways things might happen?”

  “That is true. They are infinite, diverging and multiplying from any given instant.”

  “So you’re threatening me. If I don’t join up with those two, I won’t see Belinda.”

  “I don’t threaten, Manuel. I foretell the Ifalong. It’s your choice which happentrack you follow. And since there are an infinite number of Manuels, you will follow an infinite number of happentracks. I have pointed out the most advantageous.”

  “Advantageous for who?”

  “For the almighty Starquin. You are simply my tool, Manuel. You will find the situation has certain benefits.”

  “Well, thanks,” said Manuel, annoyed, turning away abruptly and almost colliding with Dad Ose. Together they walked outside.

  “Well?” asked the priest.

  “I must do some more searching. It’s very complicated, Dad. You wouldn’t understand.”

  The priest was nursing a secret smile. “I wouldn’t understand? Me, foolish old Dad Ose? Well, Manuel my son, let me tell you one thing I do understand. You have not been listening to the word of God. You have made an arrogant and stupid assumption. Tell me this: Do you really think God would bother with you, a young beachcomber from Pu’este? God has more pressing problems, I assure you.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t. After all, you heard him, t
oo. I know you were listening.”

  “What I heard, Manuel,” said the priest, slowly and distinctly, “was an old woman standing outside my church and talking to you through the cracks in the wall. Not God. Not an almighty voice from above. Just an old woman who has nothing better to do. No.” He held up his hand as Manuel was about to contradict him. “I know this for a fact. The last time you spoke to God — as you call it — I saw her walking away. I was going to apprehend her, when I was interrupted.”

  “By Wise Ana?”

  “She is not wise, she is just a storekeeper. But yes, she happened along, and the old woman got away. How did you know?”

  Manuel just nodded absently, his expression thoughtful.

  “Listen, my son, if you don’t believe what I’m saying, I’ll bring you proof. You and I will talk to this old witch together!”

  “I’d rather not, Dad.”

  “Well, by God, I’ll bring her to you!” Furious, the priest stalked off on skinny legs, his robe flapping in the wind. Ever since the last occasion, he’d been looking forward to confronting the old crone who had the gall to impersonate God. He could hardly blame Manuel — the boy was at an impressionable age — but this was just the kind of nonsense that gave religion a bad name and converted people to cloud worship. Rounding the corner rapidly, he gave a shout of triumph.

  “I knew it! I knew it!”

  An elderly woman stood there. She was dressed in a long black cloak with a cowl that fell across her face, so that he could not see her eyes. She stood unnaturally still, and if Dad Ose had been a little more observant and a little less triumphant, he would have noticed that her cloak hung in motionless folds, unaffected by the wind that sang among the stones of the church.

  And he might have been more careful.

  “I’ve got you this time,” he exulted. “Now you can do some explaining, old woman. What do you mean by filling the minds of my people with your nonsense? What kind of sacrilege is this, impersonating God? Who are you, anyway?”