Here and there, on the banks of the far reaches of the Canal of Life, were colonies of large iguana-like animals – spiked, scaly, twice the length of a man and, so the hunters told him, virtually harmless. They were vegetarians. The only time they ever displayed ferocity was during a short mating season – and then only to others of their kind. On the other hand, there were small, delicate crab-like creatures – bright red and remarkably attractive, no larger than a man’s fist. These the hunters pointed out with respect as being among the most deadly killers in the forest.
Only once did Paul see a really massive creature during the daytime. It was a creature that the hunters called an ontholyn. It was furry, and fearsome, with tremendous clawed forepaws and a cavernous mouth. Paul watched it rear up on its hind legs to pick carefully of some fruit hanging at the top of a tall tree. It made a strange sound, half roaring and half trumpeting, then it sat back on its haunches to nibble the fruit. The sound, which had reverberated through the forest was, so the hunters said, merely an expression of pleasure. They claimed that the ontholyn was so slow that it was possible for a nimble man to run up to one, climb up its furry sides, tweak its nose and climb down again before the creature realized what was happening.
As the barge sped farther away from Baya Nor along the Canal of Life, it seemed to Paul that he and his companions were making a journey back in time. The clusters of giant ferns, the bright orchidaceous flowers, the stringy lianas that now laced overhead from bank to bank of the canal, the tall, sad and utterly lethal Weeping Trees which leaked a tough, quick bonding and poisonous glue down their trunks to trap and kill small animals that would then putrefy and feed the exposed roots of the tree – all these conspired to make him feel that he was riding down a green tunnel into pre-history.
And, in fact, he was now riding through a green tunnel; for the banks of the Canal of Life had narrowed considerably. The foliage had closed in overhead, and sunlight was visible only as a dazzling maze of thin gold bars through which the barge seemed to cut its way with miraculous and hypnotic ease.
As the light died, and the green gloom deepened, Shon Hu inspected the banks for a suitable place to moor the barge for the night.
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘we have made good travelling. We are very near now to the Watering of Oruri.’
‘Would it not be good to journey on to the great river while we can still see?’
Shon Hu shrugged. ‘Who can say, lord? But my comrades like to see where they can plant their poles.’
‘That is very wise, Shon Hu. Therefore let us rest.’
They found a small patch of ground near a group of the Weeping Trees. Shon Hu explained that most animals could smell the trees – particularly at night – and took great trouble to avoid them. That was why he had chosen the place. Nevertheless, he advised that everyone should sleep in the barge.
The first night passed without incident. After their evening meal the hunters began to exchange stories, as was their custom. Paul listened drowsily for a while, half drugged by the heavy night scents of the forest and the vapours rising from the water. The next thing he knew, it was daybreak – and a smiling Zu Shan was trying to tempt him with a handful of kappa and a strip of smoked meat that tasted like scorched rubber.
‘You slept very soundly, Paul. We did not think you would take to the forest so well. How do your bones feel?’ Zu Shan spoke in English, proud of the one distinction over the hunters that he possessed.
Paul groaned and tried to stretch. He groaned again – this time with much feeling. ‘I feel like an old man,’ he complained. ‘I feel as if the glue from the Weeping Trees had penetrated all my joints.’
‘It is the vapours from the water of the Canal of Life,’ explained Zu Shan. ‘They cause the bones to ache, but the pain passes away with vigorous movement. Poor Nemo feels it worst, I think, because his bones do not have their natural shape.’
Little Nemo was crying like a baby. Paul picked him up and began to gently massage the twisted limbs. ‘Lord,’ gasped Nemo in Bayani, ‘you shame me. I beg of you, put me down.’
Paul ruffled his hair affectionately and set him down in the stern of the barge. ‘It shall be as my son commands,’ he said gravely, ‘for I acknowledge before all present that you are truly my son.’
‘Lord,’ said Shon Hu, ‘there is much poling to be done. Will you speak the word?’
Paul raised his eyes to the steaming green roof overhead. Judging from the already oppressive atmosphere, it was going to be another hot and enervating day.
‘Let us go, then,’ he said in Bayani, ‘with the blessing of Oruri.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was on the second night that disaster struck.
The Watering of Oruri was a broad, slow river, fairly shallow but easily navigable. Were it not for the mild current, the pole-men would have had an easier job propelling their craft up the river than along the Canal of Life.
To Paul, it seemed that there could be no end to this strange journey back in time – at least, not until they arrived at the very fount of creation. Baya Nor was less than two days’ travel away; yet already it belonged to another world – a world that, fancifully, seemed as if it would not begin to exist until hundreds of millennia had passed.
It was strange, this sense of journeying back in time. He had experienced the same sort of sensations in the donjons of Baya Nor and in the temple when Enka Ne had granted him his life but had commanded that each of his little fingers be struck off.
In a sense, perhaps, he really had journeyed back in time; for he had left the twenty-first century on Earth to travel many light-years and enter a medieval society on the ‘far side of the sky’. But now, as he and his companions propelled themselves up a great musky river, flanked by high green walls of overpowering vegetation, even Baya Nor seemed ultra-modern.
The world he was in now seemed as if it had yet to experience the intrusion of man. The voyagers in their frail craft were nothing more than insubstantial dreams of the future, flitting like brief shadows through the long morning of pre-history.
They made camp for the night close by a mossy patch of ground that seemed both incongruous and refreshingly peaceful in the surrounding riot of green.
Life was lived at such a primitive and furious level in the forest through which the Watering of Oruri passed that Paul thought he could actually see plants growing. Oddly enough, although the trees and tree-ferns were much taller here than in the stretches of forest on each side of the Canal of Life, the gloom was not quite so unrelieved. Here and there, broad shafts of dying sunlight broke through the great green roof of foliage to create an odd impression of stained glass illumination in an endless green cathedral.
As he gazed idly at the river bank, tiny flowers closed their petals and almost shrank into the ground as if they were unwilling to witness the dark happenings of the long forest night.
Again the small band of explorers slept in their barge. As on the previous night, the hunters exchanged their stories – which, thought Paul, had much in common with the traditional anecdotes of fishermen back on Earth. He was less sleepy this time and managed to stay awake until one of the hunters took the first spell of the night watch. Then, with the sweeper rifle ready in his hand, he drifted luxuriously into a dark dimension of dreams that seemed strangely attuned to this world of pre-history.
It took several vital seconds for him, when the tragedy happened, to force himself back into consciousness. At first, the cries and the roars and the stench seemed to be part of the dream; but then the barge received a mighty blow and lurched violently. Paul rolled over, realized that he was awake and that the pandemonium was real.
He groped desperately for the sweeper rifle. Fitted along its barrel was a small atomic-powered pencil-beam torch, set parallel with the sights. It was his only source of light. Until he could find it and operate it, he could not possibly discover what was happening. The stench was terrible; but the screams were indescribable.
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ly, he groped for the rifle. A century seemed to pass before he found it. He felt for the torch button and pressed it as he swung the rifle towards the sound of screaming.
The thin beam of intense light did not illuminate a wide area; but it revealed enough to turn his stomach to jelly.
There, on the bank of the river, was the largest and most terrible creature he had ever seen. As large, perhaps, as the prehistoric tyrannosaurus rex of Earth, and certainly no less terrible.
He swung the torch beam up towards the massive and nightmarish head – then almost dropped the rifle in sheer terror. The head, arms and shoulders of one of the hunters protruded from a cavernous mouth.
Instantly, Paul swung the rifle away from the head, down the great curved back to where he judged the creature’s belly must be. He pressed the trigger. Blue light shot through the darkness, parallel to the white light of the torch.
Added to the stench of the monster itself there was now the stench of its burning flesh. The fantastic creature seemed to be more surprised than hurt. With a casual and strangely delicate movement, it raised a great forearm and plucked the hunter from its mouth, flinging the body far out into the Watering of Oruri.
Then, with an almost comical calmness, it began to contemplate the unusual phenomenon of the blue and white beams of light. By that time the creature’s stomach was burning, with the flesh sizzling and spitting. Gouts of flaming body fat fell to the ground; and smoky yellow flames curled up the high, scaly back.
The beast, thought Paul, hysterically, was already dead – but it just didn’t know when to lie down. It stood there, watching itself being consumed by atomic fire as if the event were interesting but not altogether disturbing. Surely the blood must be boiling in its brain!
The whole scene appeared to drift into nightmarish slow motion. Paul, hypnotized, could not take his eyes from the beast to see what his companions were doing. He continued pouring fantastic quantities of energy into the hide of a monster that seemed to have erupted from the very dawn of life.
At last, the terrible creature – almost burnt in two – appeared to realize that it was doomed. It shuddered, and the ground shuddered with it, then it gave a piercing scream – literally breathing fire, as burning flesh and air were expelled from its lungs, and rolled over, taking a tree with it. The thud of its body shook the bank, the barge and even the river. It must have been dead before it hit the ground.
Paul managed to pull himself together sufficiently to take his finger off the trigger of the sweeper rifle. But darkness did not descend, for the corpse of the beast had become a blazing inferno. The smell and the sounds were overpowering.
Shon Hu spoke the first coherent words. ‘Lord,’ he gasped with difficulty, ‘forgive me. I vomit.’
He hung over the side of the barge and was joined within seconds by everyone except Nemo, who had curled himself up into a tight foetal ball and was unconscious.
‘Who has died?’ whispered Paul, when he could trust himself to speak once more.
‘Mien She, lord. He was the one who watched. Perhaps the beast saw him move.’
‘Why did he not see the beast move? Or hear it? Such a creature could not move without warning of its coming.’
‘Lord, I know not. He is dead now. Let us not question his alertness, for he has suffered much, and it may be that his spirit would be sad to know that we doubted him.’
Paul glanced at the burning corpse once more, and was immediately sick again. When he had recovered, he said ‘How call you this monster?’
‘Lord, it has no name,’ said Shon Hu simply. ‘We have not seen its like before. We do not wish to see its like again.’
‘Let us go quickly from this place,’ said Paul, retching, ‘before we vomit ourselves to death. In future, two men will always watch, for it is clear that one may nod. Let us go quickly, now.’
‘Lord, it is dark and we do not know the river.’
‘Nevertheless, we will go.’ He gestured towards the still burning body. ‘Here is too much light – and other things. Come. I will take the pole of Mien She.’
TWENTY-NINE
There was not a breath of wind. The forest was immensely quiet. Indeed, but for the dark green smells of night, it would have been possible to imagine that the forest had ceased to exist. Only the river seemed alive, murmuring sleepily as if it, too, wished to sink into a state of unbeing.
It had been a hard and dismal day – hard because the Watering of Oruri had narrowed, making the current more swift, and dismal because the death of Mien She was still very much on everyone’s minds.
Nemo had been the worst affected. He had been the worst affected not only because he was a child but because he had experienced telepathically the brief but terrifying agony of Mien She. All day the crippled child had lain curled up at the stern of the barge. He would not eat or even drink; and it was only by patient coaxing that Paul managed to get him to take a few mouthfuls of water at the evening meal.
There had been no cheerful exchange of tall stories when the hunters took their ease after a hard day’s poling. When they spoke – if they spoke – it was almost monosyllabically and only because the communication was necessary.
Paul and Shon Hu had taken the first watch. Now they were also taking the last watch. Presently grey wisps of light would filter through the tall trees. Today they would leave the barge behind. Already they were in Lokhali country, and therefore the dangers were doubled. But, thought Paul, after the horror of the previous night, any brush with the Lokhali would seem by contrast to be a form of light relief.
As he sat back to back with Shon Hu, Paul realized that there was something concerning the Lokhali that was trying to surface in his conscious mind. Something important. Something that he had seen but not noticed …
His only encounter so far with the forest tribe had been at the mass crucifixion on the Fourth Avenue of the Gods. His mind flew back to that day and he could see again and hear again the dying Lokhali who, in his extreme agony, had murmured meaningless – and, in the circumstances, bizarre – fragments of German, French and English.
Suddenly, Paul realized what he had seen but not noticed. Four fingers and a thumb! The Lokhali were not only taller than the Bayani, but more perfectly formed. Four fingers and a thumb! Then his mind leaped back to the woman who bore her child near the kappa fields, and then to Mylai Tui, who had been angry at his questions and had then demanded to be chastised for displaying her anger.
And now here he was in the middle of a primeval forest, journeying in search of a legend and with a headful of unanswered questions. He wanted to laugh aloud. He wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity, the incongruity of it all.
He did laugh aloud.
Shon Hu started. ‘You are amused, lord?’ he asked reproachfully.
‘Not really, Shon Hu. I am sorry to startle you. I was just thinking of some things that Poul Mer Lo, the teacher, finds hard to understand.’
‘What manner of things, lord?’
Remembering the reactions of Mylai Tui, Paul thought carefully. ‘Shon Hu,’ he began, ‘we have not known each other long, but this venture joins us. You are my friend and brother.’
‘I am proud to be the friend of Poul Mer Lo. To become as his brother would do me too much honour.’
‘Nevertheless, my friend and brother, it is so. Therefore I do not wish to offend you.’
Shon Hu was puzzled. ‘How can you offend me, lord, who have raised me in my own eyes?’
‘By asking questions, Shon Hu. Only by asking questions.’
‘Lord, I see you wish to speak. Where no offence is offered, none shall be taken.’
‘The questions concern the number of fingers a man should have, Shon Hu.’
Immediately, Paul felt the hunter stiffen.
‘Lord,’ said Shon Hu at length, ‘are there not certain things in your own country of which it is very shameful to speak?’
Paul considered for a moment. ‘Yes, my friend, I think there are.’
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‘So it is also with the Bayani. I tell you this, lord, so that you will understand if I do not find it easy to talk about the number of fingers a man should have. We have a saying: it is a thing that should be heard once and told once … Remember this, lord. Now ask the questions.’
‘Shon Hu, were you born with four fingers and a thumb, or with three?’
The hunter held up his hand. ‘See, lord.’ There were three fingers and a thumb.
Paul held up his own hand. ‘You have not answered the question. Look … But I was born with four fingers and a thumb – were you?’
‘Lord, I – I do not know,’ said Shon Hu desperately.
‘Are you sure? Are you sure you do not know?’
Shon Hu gulped. ‘Lord, I was told once by my father when he was dying that the left hand had been – defiled … But, it was such a little finger, lord, and the shame was easily remedied … this none living know, save you.’
Paul smiled. ‘Be easy, my friend. None living, save me, shall ever know … I wonder how many more Bayani have been born imperfect?’
‘I do not know. Not many, I think. The priests take those who are discovered. They are not seen again.’
‘Why is it so terrible to have four fingers?’
‘Because, lord, those who have four fingers are the forsaken of Oruri. He smiles upon them not.’
‘Do you believe this?’
‘Lord,’ said the hunter in an agitated voice, ‘I must believe. It is the truth.’
‘But why is it the truth?’ asked Paul relentlessly.
‘Lord, I can tell you only what I know … It is said that many many years ago, before there was a god-king in Baya Nor, the Bayani were not one people. There were those who were tall and lighter of skin, possessing four fingers and a thumb upon each hand. They were not, however, so numerous as the true Bayani, smaller, quicker of mind and body, possessing three fingers and a thumb upon each hand … There was much bloodshed, lord. Always there was much bloodshed. The tall ones with two fives believed themselves to be superior to the small ones with two fours. They ill-used the women of the fours. The fours retaliated and ill-used the women of the fives. Presently, there was a third warring faction – a number of outcasts with three fingers and a thumb on one hand and four fingers and a thumb on the other. Even among these people there was strife, since those with four fingers and a thumb on the right hand believed themselves to be superior to those with four fingers and a thumb on the left. And so the bloodshed became greater and more fierce, as each group reasoned that it alone was of the true blood and therefore most fitted to lead the rest.’
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 52