Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

Rising from his knees and lowering his hands from his face, he called to Ayradyss and felt her hand upon his shoulder. Straightening, he threw his head back as he advanced, and then, voice wavering at first, he began to sing as he moved onto the span.

  * * *

  High atop Mount Meru at the center of the universe the gods sat unmoving on their stone thrones, contemplating Virtu all about them. Having sacrificed much of mobility for the better part of omniscience they tended to sit so for long spans of time. Action detracted from perception and perhaps wisdom.

  Having extended much of themselves into their warring avatars, they had slowed the functioning of their personalities here. Hence, their conversations would have been drawn-out affairs by time-bound standards. Fortunately, an equivalent of singularity math prevailed at Virtu’s center, allowing for those frustrating and wonderful anomalies the lesser gods referred to as “eternity physics,” envying their seniors those awful and awesome excesses of inscrutability in regions above the winds that blow between the worlds.

  Skyga, Seaga, and Earthma realized they’d not much of themselves left what with extensions of sense and personality beyond number and mass. Their ongoing extended conversations—sometimes more like monologues—were necessary for preserving what remained of identity.

  They feared that silence would extinguish them as they were, leaving them forever divided among their lesser selves throughout the realms of Virtu. There were of course hierarchies within hierarchies, as one descended the skies, the lands, the seas.

  “…Thus a new cycle begins,” Seaga observed over a timeless decade.

  “As with most major events, its origins are already muddied,” Earthma observed, “unless the hand of Skyga moves within them.”

  “He has not spoken for a long while. Perhaps he is acting.”

  “Or perhaps he has finally decomposed completely.”

  “I wonder…”

  “No. He plays a guarded game. He hums softly.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Don’t you start, too.”

  “You think he is not really there?”

  “If the gods don’t know, who is to say?”

  “We might take advantage of such an absence by returning all of ourselves to our bodies and removing them to the cave where it is more comfortable and—”

  “We would lose touch with our minions for a time.”

  “…And gain touch with each other, fair one.”

  “True, and pleasant indeed would it be. Though whenever such as we make love the chains of consequence tend to dizzying complexity as well as to poetry.”

  “What the hell. Let’s leave him to his mantra and get to bed.”

  “A moment, while I cover my absence with a few illusions.”

  “Then we uncover ourselves and make the mountain move.”

  “So much for the poetry part.”

  As Seaga reeled in his consciousness, his perspective on Virtu’s spiritual development altered from being gathered into one place. While it remained a colorful panorama, it seemed now—compressed as the picture had become—that he was more aware of patterns, where before he had seen only events.

  “Earthma, I think there may be a peculiar social current that has some connection with Stage IV,” he observed, as they walked toward the cave.

  “Don’t be silly, Seaga,” she said, brushing against him with her hip. No mortal in Verite and hardly any in Virtu even suspect that there is a theoretical basis for such a thing.”

  “True,” he acknowledged, catching hold of her hand.

  “…And even if one were to work it out, that is all that it could be—a hypothesis with no obvious applicability.”

  “I’d found some small and subtle uses for it.”

  “Nothing like what we’d talked about in the beginning.”

  “No, you’re right,” he said, following her into the cave and drawing her to him.

  “Now, which would you rather explore, reality theory or female anatomy?” she asked.

  “When you put it that way, I begin to appreciate how many centuries I’ve spent in an abstract, theological fashion.”

  She gestured and there was sufficient illumination to light their way to bed. He gestured and the light went out.

  “The last ones I saw come in here were Warga and Agrima,” she said.

  “Yes, before they departed for realms unknown,” he said as their garments fell.

  “That was years ago,” she noted, “and they didn’t stay long.”

  “Warga is noted for things like that,” Seaga observed. “Quick and to the point.”

  Earthma giggled.

  “Terrible reputation to have.”

  “The sea, on the other hand, is slow, steady, relentless. And occasionally it grows wild.”

  “Live up to that,” she said.

  * * *

  Eilean a’Tempull Dubh had possessed other names in the listings of National Trust for Scotland, but it was the one Donnerjack remembered it by, and by which he referred to it, there in the telephone booth within the circle of fire—a rest stop on the Long, Long Trail A-Winding. Given to planning ahead, he had recalled that black piece of real estate off the western coast of Scotland which he had twice visited as a boy. Its presence in the family had something to do with those MacMillans, MacKays, and MacCrimmons numbered among his father’s antecedents, though he’d no idea whether it were still present, or, if so, what medieval encumbrances might complicate its relationship to him. He’d phoned his attorney, a Wilson, back in the Verite, who had complained concerning the connection and had wanted to speak of the legal business of the Donnerjack Institute, and had told him to get in touch with his father’s attorney, a MacNeil, in Edinburgh—or to that man’s successor—and have him determine whether Donnerjack still possessed title and, if so, what he needed to do to repair, renovate, and to take up residence on that family isle. The Wilson wanted to discuss some current contracts then, but a rush of flames filled his screen as Donnerjack’s five minutes were up and, being a thrifty man, John did not elect to credit another call unit.

  * * *

  Sayjak slept in a fork of a tree, higher than anyone else in his clan. That way he could watch them all. And the higher they had to come to reach him the more signs of their progress he received. Such as now.

  He had been sound asleep, dreaming of sex and violence—which, more often than not, went together in his waking life as well—and he felt the approach and was awake and aware well before Chumo was near enough to attack him, had that been his plan.

  Sayjak belched, farted, scratched himself, and stretched. Then he regarded Chumo as he climbed, waiting for him to achieve a suitable nearness for quiet conversation.

  “Sayjak,” the other called. “Come quick. We got troubles.”

  Sayjak yawned deliberately before responding.

  “What troubles?” he said then.

  “Eeksies. All over. Most to south. More coming in west, north.”

  “How many eeksies?”

  “All of fingers. All of toes. Dick, too. Many times. Just in south.”

  “What they doing?”

  “Nothing. Sit in camp. Eat. Crap. Sleep.”

  “What about west ones? And north?”

  “All of fingers. Maybe throw in a few dicks. Just getting there. More came in north while we watched.”

  “You and Staggert?”

  “Yes.”

  Sayjak reached for his mascot. It had taken him weeks to learn to tie a knot in a piece of cord he had found in the bounties’ camp. But he had seen knots before and knew their function. And this cord already had a knot in it. He had used it as a model. Over and over, he had looped and twisted the strand until one day he did it. He had repeated it then, even learning variations. Then he was ready.

  He tied each end securely to the hair of Big Betsy’s head. This made it easy to hang from broken tree limbs, or to wear it around his neck when he felt the occasion warranted ceremony. Now, it hung from a nearby branch, and he re
ached out and stroked it as a thinking aid, and perhaps for good luck, also. He had cached the machete in the hollow of another tree, and every now and then he took it out and cut something with it.

  For a moment, he considered wearing the head. But he had too far to go, too fast. It could catch or tangle in the brush. He bade it goodbye, then told Chumo, “Take me south. Then west and north. I must see these eeksies for myself.”

  So he followed Chumo down the tree, halted to alert the clan to the presence of eeksies, then headed into the south. Several hours later, he crouched in the brush with Chumo, regarding the encampment. A great number of the hunters were about, eating, talking, cleaning or honing weapons. It was the largest gathering of them that Sayjak had ever seen. Along with the apprehension this produced there came a number of questions. Why so many? Why now? And they were bounties—not eeksies, in their green-and-brown uniforms. Why bounties?

  Eeksies were official; they were establishment, sent from some far-off place to do a job, and for that matter, their jobs did not always involve killing the People. Sometimes they cut trees or planted them, set fires or fought them, dug ditches, diverted rivers. Bounties, on the other hand, only came to kill—and unlike eeksies they took away tokens of their work. It was from the bounties, in fact, that he had gotten the notion of taking Big Betsy’s head. The bounties were freer, wilder, nastier, more worthy of respect-Usually, they were loners or trackers in small parties, and he had to assume that those to the west and the north were a part of this entire business. Such things did not just happen…

  After a time, he touched Chumo’s shoulder.

  “Take me to the west now,” he told him.

  As they traveled, he wondered where Otlag’s clan browsed these days. Or Dortak’s. Or Bilgad’s. A general knowledge of where the others browsed was useful in preventing territorial disputes. But he was thinking precisely, rather than generally, at the moment.

  Spying on the much smaller western party from a dangerous vantage, he began to suspect that none of the other clans would be enclosed by the three bounty parties and the plains to the east. He would know for certain soon enough, but already he began to feel uneasy. Hoga, who had been watching the western group, told him that its last few members had just arrived. They were making camp, though, rather than waiting as if they expected orders momentarily. So Sayjak assumed that they planned to spend at least one night in the area before commencing any concerted action with the other groups.

  Hoga and Congo, who had been left by Staggert to watch the party since its discovery that morning, followed Sayjak’s lead away from the clearing.

  “You know where Dortak’s or Bilgad’s or Otlak’s clans are right now?” Sayjak asked.

  “Otlak’s that way.” He pointed north. “Far past the next bounty encampment. Dortak’s farther west.” He pointed again. “Don’t know about Bilgad.”

  Sayjak felt a strange sensation in his stomach, for he had felt that Bilgad foraged to the southeast. That indeed only left his own clan within the walls he now saw being raised. These bounties, he was suddenly certain, wanted him and his people for a particular vengeance.

  He groped after a concept—the posting of the three groups so as to enable them to move most effectively against his people. His head filled with the projected activity. The notion of putting it all together in this fashion before doing it took hold of him mightily. He did things, too, in that way, though on a much smaller scale. While he lacked a word for the concept “plan,” in both its verb and noun forms, he suddenly understood it. And he realized that he needed one of his own, a bigger one than he had ever come up with before.

  “Take me north now,” he said, “where Staggert watches the other group.”

  He calculated distances as they went, and he thought about the Circle Shannibal. He knew that he must act quickly, and that his plan would have to be better than their plan.

  A little after noon they arrived at the northern encampment. Staggert met them and led them to a vantage amid trees on a hilltop.

  “This is the smallest camp,” Sayjak observed. “I see two hands of bounties.”

  “And there are more bounties on patrol,” Staggert said.

  “The People are in great danger,” Sayjak said after a time.

  “From these bounties?” Staggert said.

  “Yes. These and those to the west are going to surprise the People and drive them southward to be slaughtered.”

  “How do you know this?” Staggert asked.

  Sayjak thought of the raid on which he had slain Big Betsy. He suddenly thought of the other bounties coming here because he had given them fear, fear that they could become the prey.

  “I tell you everything I know, Staggert, and you’ll be too smart,” he said, “like me. They want our heads, and they will take them. Unless we have a—a better way of doing things than their way of doing things.”

  He turned toward Chumo.

  “Go back,” he told him, “to the other two camps. Get Congo. Get Hoga. Get Ocro. Bring them here to wait for me.”

  “Wait?” Chumo asked. “Where are you going?”

  “Back for the rest of our clan.”

  “Bring ‘em here, too?’

  “Place near here.”

  “What for?”

  Sayjak studied the other. Then he tapped his forehead.

  “New way of fighting.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “People warfare,” Sayjak replied.

  Then he turned and was gone into the jungle.

  He brought the entire clan with him that evening, leaving all but the able-bodied males in a clearing about a mile from the northern encampment. He wore his mascot about his neck and he carried the stick-that-cuts as he led them, finally positioning his warriors in a glen near to the bounties’ camp. Then he conferred with his lieutenants.

  Staggert, Chumo, Svut, Congo, Ocro, and Hoga stood with him in a twilit clearing as he said, “Tonight we going to kill them all here. You know how?”

  All of them growled assent.

  “No, you don’t know how,” he said then. “You know how to run in, make a lot of noise, wrestle around, and squish ‘em. That’s not how. Not how I want it done, not this time. We wait for dark and quiet. Get as close as we can without noise. Kill ones nearest weapons first. But kill all of ‘em. We take too long, or they get hold of fancy weapons, we call for more warriors to come in fast and crush. Second group will be waiting for this, if we need ‘em. Too many go in at first, though, and we get in each others’ way. Everybody understand?”

  Again, they all grunted assent.

  * * *

  Her body lay in its cubicle, nourishment, elimination, and exercise taken care of through the guardian unit. It had spoken to her in Virtu, warning her that her time was running, that she must soon return to Verite, in accordance with the vacation plan filed for her by her parents, which entailed a week on and a week off, throughout the summer. This limit was already passed, and she was now into the grace period, which, itself, was about to expire.

  However, as her legs parted and her hips commenced small thrusting movements, the guardian unit halted its preparation for her recall. As Lydia moaned softly, it was already investigating her situation in Virtu. Sexual intercourse of the non-rape variety normally extended the grace period for its duration. With rape, of course, it mattered from a recreational standpoint whether one were rendering it or receiving it. Subtleties involving jurisdiction and the protection of one’s client also came into play. The scan showed this particular lay to be of the voluntary, mutually recreational variety. The monitor was, unfortunately, unable to appreciate the esthetics and physiological sequelae of terminating presence with one’s lover immediately following orgasm.

  Abruptly, her legs locked themselves about invisible hips. Her pumping movements grew more frantic, and her nails raked an unseen back. The monitor detected increased heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing rate, and volume per inhalation. It did not notice that she
was smiling. This is only known as the “demon lover effect” when people view it from the one side, while eating popcorn.

  As soon as the big relaxation came it commenced the recall sequence.

  * * *

  … And fell. And blasted fell…

  His assembled body limp at the bottom of inertia, he passed downward from the topless height, surfaces singed as if by a stroke of lightning.

  The trail had taken him through lands both hollow and hilly, through dead domains like abandoned movie sets. Up, ever up, had it led, into the realms of painful light. But he was not one to lose a trail, and he had followed, followed. Running up vertical surfaces, leaping chasms without bottoms, he sought. Seeking, he—

  —found?

  Rather, he was found.

  One moment, he followed a scent. The next moment, it was all around him. He rose into the air and spun, fantasy dance of a pied autumn leaf. And the brightness was awesome.

  “Oh, frightful dogger of this trail,” snapped a voice from everywhere, like the scent, “you have come too far!”

  Mizar threw back his head and commenced the howl Death had taught him.

  With a crackling sound, the brightness condensed upon his person. His howl was cut off, barely past its inception. Again, he was turning, and a new smell filled the air, that of burning insulation, boiled glue, singed paint, welded metal. Rolling, ass over knee joint, tail in eye, he felt himself cast beyond the edge of the great crag in the silent sky where stars bloom in the always twilight and clouds drift far below.

  Blasted by the light, the darkness came upon him.

  Falling, falling then—for days, ages perhaps, depending on the worlds he fell through—

  —down…

  THREE

  Tranto had lost track of time in his wanderings. Not that he ever paid it a great deal of heed, but the madness laid a distorting red haze over most things, time and space among them.

  As the pain subsided, however, the frantic characteristic of the huge phant’s approach to existence was also abated. The haze grew dim, and with its passing he was able to stop and eat the flowers again. He noted after a time that he occupied a great plain near to the edge of a jungle. It stirred memories of an earlier existence, for he recalled being small among others of his kind in a place such as this. And who knew? He might even have returned to those very ranges. He browsed, barely thinking, for days, his mind adrift in a place halfway between dreaming and wakefulness. This was the glorious euphoria which normally followed his spells. Moving, eating, and drinking, gaining back the mass he had lost, he found it an unnecessary effort to do more than respond to circumstances. That, and enjoy without reflection the simple realities of being.