The Dome in the Forest

by Paul O. Williams

  “You are Kubra? Why have you come here? Why have you been killing the Heart River peoples?”

  “We were attacked. In every case, we were attacked. Even here we meant no harm until these people started killing us with their terrible weapons.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Tor. They came in the night. The heat sensors read them. We told them to get back, shouting it. They simply hid for a time. We held them off for a whole day, but they crept in on us like the darkness itself.”

  “Ah, good woman. You know that was not the way it was. We came in need of food.”

  “What is wrong with your face?” Tor asked.

  Kubra started slightly, then said, “My face? Nothing. It may be a little flushed from that terrible heat. My eyes are still dazzled.”

  Unaccountably, Tor lifted his horn and blew five short blasts, then five more, then three rising notes twice.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Eolyn asked. “Here, hold still.”

  “Just proclaiming the victory this Kubra has admitted, before I sicken and die,” said Tor.

  Suddenly, in one motion, Kubra lunged for Tor. Tor hit him across the face with a quick twist of the flat of his axe, stood, grabbed Eolyn with his ruined arm, and ran for the rocks to the south. As she was swept up, Eolyn saw in a fleeting instant that Kubra’s face had been swept aside. It was a mask. Beneath it lay the ravaged face, with no nose and shriveled lips, that she had seen on a few of the others. She shrieked.

  Tor dumped her by a giant rock, then clambered silently up over a large fallen stone mass ahead. Eolyn lay frightened and panting, hearing fighting sounds behind the rock. Soon Tor reappeared. “Go around the rock and stay,” he said. “I have to get Royal.”

  She did, finding there five Peshtak bodies, one still twitching. She screamed again, and drew back, as Tor reappeared, carrying the old physician over his left shoulder. Royal hung limp and dazed.

  “We have to stay here. The others are across the valley. At least two groups. We will hold them back with the pointer. Did you find the other pulser here?”

  “I didn’t look,” said Eolyn, shuddering. “But one of them has it.”

  “That is bad.”

  “How do you know there are more? That they are over there? Don’t tell me you felt all this, too.”

  “I did, partly. I could feel them behind me. That man, Kubra, confirmed it. He was lying about everything. I thought I saw him signaling behind his back to these. I saw him shift in the sun to signal people behind us with his metal badge—those over there. Some of them may still be blinded by the blast. But they will be coming, especially if they have the pulser. But Blu will take care of them.”

  “Blu? I thought you were alone.”

  “I was. But I heard Dusk barking. That’s why I called and warned them with the horn. They will be coming on the high ground behind the Peshtak. If the Peshtak hide from Blu’s men, then we can sting them with this pointer.”

  “Did they hear? How do you know?”

  “Dusk stopped barking.”

  “Look. They are coming.”

  A line of Peshtak, about forty, spread out and began walking across the valley, recurved bows nocked. Some looked ill. Others seemed dazzled. A number were women, and several no more than boys. Tor let them get so close that Eolyn grew very nervous. Then he swept the ultrasonic pointer slowly across them. As he did, they screamed and ran, but as they neared the south rocks, arrows flashed out, killing a number. The others turned and ran back. Tor picked them out one by one, focusing the pointer, dropping them. They turned again. Blu’s men remained under cover, but more arrows flicked out as the Peshtak came close. Tor advanced across the valley. One man shouted orders, and they all turned and rushed at Tor. He stood his ground, raking the pointer across them. But only a few wavered, and none made a move to surrender. Those who drew and shot at him were too far away to be effective. Soon they were all on the ground. Tor sighed in deep distaste.

  “Shut that thing off, Tor,” Blu shouted, faintly, from across the valley. Tor waved. The Shumai emerged from cover.

  “Don’t touch them,” Tor shouted back. “They are all diseased with something.”

  The two men met in the middle, plainly glad to see each other, though unsmiling. “I am worried,” Tor said. “The hand-held pulser is nowhere around. There may be more. They are tucked in the rocks like snakes.”

  Blu looked at the still burning valley and whistled. Tor explained what happened as they walked back toward Eolyn and Royal. The Shumai spread in a pattern, watching. Plainly they had been learning from the Sentani. Eolyn was kneeling over Royal. He too had been beaten by the Peshtak, and only now was he getting any comfort.

  The Shumai posted guards and began to relax. The strain finally showed on Tor, but he remained wary. “I don’t know,” he said. “There may be more. And that pulser.”

  Dusk bristled, ears pricked, then rushed toward Dard, who was standing guard near the south valley wall. He turned to see the dog explode in a pulser blast. Then Dard, drawing his bow, also blew apart. All the others were in the open, but instantly running.

  A Peshtak emerged on a rock, holding the pulser. He aimed among the group and blasted, but only exploded ashes. He fired rapidly at random as the Shumai ran, killing one more man, then, unaccountably, fired twice high in the air. He slumped, an arrow sticking through his chest. The pulser tumbled down the rocks and landed hard, firing one more energy blast as it hit, scaling some rocks off the valley wall.

  “Get the pulser,” Eolyn yelled. But no one moved. They heard a yell and growl, and another Peshtak appeared high in the rocks, running, Raran behind him. Another arrow flashed over the dog and into the man, who fell.

  “It is Tris,” Tor yelled. Still no one moved for a few moments. Then, as the Shumai began moving slowly and in utter silence back across the valley toward the rocks, they heard another yell and growl, and silence again. Eolyn watched them seem to dissolve into the rocks. Left alone, with Royal quietly panting on the ground, Eolyn heard the sibilant moan of the November wind and smelled the sharp smoke, with a horror of burnt flesh in it.

  Finally, Tor’s horn sounded, and the men reappeared and walked back. They were sober and grim. The loss of Dard, and the other man, Cruw, had hurt them all; the burnt valley littered with Peshtak and the still, black limbless mounds dazed them. Blu had retrieved the pulser and brought it to Eolyn.

  “Take this thing apart,” he said.

  “But . . .” she began, then looking at him, deactivated it, disassembled it, and gave him the pieces, one by one. He handed each piece to a man until finally only the heavy power pack lay in his hand. He hefted it.

  “Be careful,” Eolyn said. “By itself it won’t hurt anything. In fact, if you keep it and take it to Pelbarigan, we can use it.”

  Blu handed it to Tor. “Come,” he said. “We have men to bury. And a dog. A good, good dog.” The Shumai took their dead to the high south outcrop, up in the woods above the sheer rocks, and sent the rest of the day in burial ceremonies, erecting one stone slab over the mound heaped on the two men and Dusk.

  Late in the afternoon, Raran growled, facing down the valley, and a party of men appeared.

  “It is Sark and Krush with some Sentani,” said Tor. He blew his horn, one long, almost endless blast, the tone of greeting in sadness. A horn returned the note, echoing it off the valley walls. The men looked at each other. Dard was Sark’s son. Tor looked at the ground, then pulled himself up and ran down to meet them. The others watched the tall axeman talking with the men, who formed a small star, sentinels looking outward in seven points, down the smoking valley. Then Sark came up alone, climbing slowly.

  Standing by the rock-topped grave, they waited for him, and, as he arrived, Blu gestured. Sark’s nostrils flared. He stood by the grave unspeaking, then finally sat down, throwing his coat up over his head. At length the other men sang in unison the song of Sertine, whose voice is heard in the prairie wind, whose voice has always been heard in th
e grass, at all seasons, in all years, whether “we walk in the grass or lie under its roots—Sertine, the abiding and just Governor of all.”

  Their deep voices came down to the valley in unutterable sadness, and at last Eolyn, who had been listening in fear and uncertainty, surrounded by silent Sentani, caught something from the song that touched her. She looked across the ruin of the recently beautiful wooded valley and fell into sobbing.

  Royal reached out and touched her arm. “It is all right, Eo. You didn’t know. We will go back to Pelbarigan and try to make it up. In spite of everything, we do have a great deal to teach them.”

  She nodded, not believing this, crushed down with loss and guilt.

  The Sentani moved up the valley and set up a camp, using the center valley floor. They set out sentinels and prepared a meal, using meat and wild food they had brought with them.

  Eventually a young man came to Eolyn and Royal, who were still alone in the dusk. “Come,” he said. “Mokil says to come inside the guard star.” He lifted Royal up and carried the old man like a child.

  Mokil was waiting for them. He was a short, white-haired man, looking straight-mouthed. “Over there,” he said, gesturing. “There will be food soon.” Then he turned. “Logi,” he said. “I hear horses.”

  Dailith rode wearily into the firelight, leading the other two mounts. “Where?” he said. “What happened? Where are the others? You. You are Mokil?”

  “We have met?”

  “At Northwall. At the fight. You wouldn’t have known me. I am Dailith.”

  “You were at Northwall? You must have been a boy.”

  “Just about. What has happened?”

  “Come. Get down. Rewe, you and Chog take these horses. Here, give this man some tea.” The Sentani immediately accepted Dailith as a brother, as they always did anyone who had been at the fight at Northwall. They told him what they knew of what happened. Soon the Shumai straggled wearily into the circle of firelight. The Sentani fed them, almost wordlessly, and the running band settled down to sleep. Sark remained on the hilltop, with one man. Another man took them some food, setting it by Sark, nudging him, but he never moved.

  Dailith brought food to Eolyn and Royal, then sat with them. “Will you come back?” he asked.

  She looked at him, red-eyed. “How can I? I am ashamed.”

  “Come. Tell them you made a mistake. Come with me.”

  “With you?”

  Dailith looked at her. “I . . .” he said. He looked at Royal. “This is going to sound stupid, but . . .”

  She looked at his weary face, guileless, with its strong chin and warm brown eyes. She caught his unspoken meaning. Her eyes swept the fire circle for Tor. He wasn’t there. “Why? Why would you do that? Look at them all. Look how they ignore us, hate us.”

  “They don’t hate you. They don’t blame you for the Peshtak. After all, you destroyed them. Or poor Butto did. They are angry with you for what they see as bull-headedness. Give them time. They are shocked by what the pulsers did. They fear you. You are unknown to all of us. Look. All their lives they have avoided the empty places. Now, today, for the second time since the time of fire a new one has been made.”

  “That is not an empty place. It is only an energy flare. There will be some radiation, but not much. The second time?”

  “They have heard of the explosion of the dome.”

  “Oh. What shall I do?”

  “Admit you were wrong. I will stand by you.”

  “Wrong? How was I wrong?”

  “You assumed you could go safely to the eastern cities. You endangered the whole Heart River by nearly placing these weapons in the hands of the Peshtak. They could have stood across the river from Pelbarigan and systematically destroyed the city.”

  “Why did you let me go, then?”

  “What could we do? You are a free woman. You can do what you wish. The Pelbar all think that. But the Sentani, if they had been there in force, might have simply killed you all, knowing the immense danger you brought. They have suffered from the Peshtak—four raids now, this making five.”

  “What would you have done if they did that?”

  “Done? What could be done? The Shumai would not have bothered. You rejected us, but still you put the Pelbar in a bad light because of this. We let you. Enough, though. You see how it is. I will stand by you, and I am sure Tor will. He is that large. He was worried. He somehow knew. He got Ruthan to radio to you and came all the way here from Pelbarigan.”

  “He did that for me—for us? Tor?”

  “He did it for the Heart River peoples, Eo. He was afraid of the weapons.”

  “Then not for me.”

  “For you? Good Aven, woman. What have you ever done but scorn and ridicule him?”

  “He is inexplicable.”

  “He is valuable. Listen, Eo. Neither one of you will ever be truly happy. Like most of us, I mean. You are opposites. You are both driven inside, somehow. But . . . I would like to try to make you happy. Live with me, Eo. Marry me. I mean it. I will be everything I can for you. Come back with me. It will be all right.”

  “Marry you. I thought that’s what you meant.” Again she looked at his frank, strong face, with its dirt and beard stubble, its young, innocent sturdiness, its freedom from the slight, athletic arrogance with which the Shumai all carried themselves. “I. . . all right. I will. Are you sure you want to get into this? You say you know I will never be happy.”

  Dailith gave a nervous laugh, then dropped his eyes. “Yes. I’m sure. I knew it when the dome was still burning.”

  Slowly they settled down for the night, Dailith by Eolyn and Royal. Eolyn could not sleep. She heard the Sentani signal the guards and quietly change them. She heard a Shumai quietly get up and go to sit on the hill near Sark, then another one return a short while later. Once she heard the barking honk of a flock of geese flying south in the dark—Celeste’s birds, which she had drawn on the light screen that spring, so long ago, it seemed. Everything had a rhythm to it. All these people fit into the rhythm. She felt wholly left out of it. Perhaps something had been omitted from her makeup. Perhaps she too was a comp of a different sort. No. That was not so. She could feel—at least now she thought she could. Surely Dexter had had less feeling all along, damn him. Was Dailith accepting her for love or out of duty? What was she getting into, promising she would marry him. Only months before, she thought that was an ancient and outworn custom. It seemed to work well for Stel and Ahroe, though. They functioned as a unit. They had sympathies that united them in an uncanny way. Perhaps it would work for her. She would try.

  As the first light of dawn began, Eolyn heard Sark and another man come into the camp. He walked to the far rim of the dim firelight. “Well, Tor, was it worth it?” he asked.

  “For you, no, Sark. For the rest of us, yes.”

  “Better those people all crumbled with their dome. You would have your arm and I my son.”

  “That couldn’t be, though, could it. And if that were the way, all those Peshtak would still be loose, murderous as ever. The dome people took much of the loss. Butto was a fine, fine man.”

  Sark’s voice changed. “Tor, what would the words of Aven be for this? I can’t get outside it.”

  “The words of Aven are that the body’s life is not our life. Our life is what we do, what we think, how we come close in our actions and our motives to the pure life of Aven. For if we are so made, we have affirmed our understanding of eternal identity, as ones not needing flesh but needing only to know the will of Aven and follow it, knowing that this will preserve us in the thought of Aven forever.”

  Sark considered this. “But Dard, he was preparing to kill. What good would these Pelbar ideas do him?”

  “No, Sark. Dard was loyal to his friends. He was selfless. He stuck with them in the hopes of preserving life. He didn’t plan to get any personal gain from it. That is love, Sark. I think we must believe that that is goodness.”

  “What do you really think of t
hese words of Aven?”

  “I don’t know, Sark. I really don’t know. But think of it this way. This was like the time of fire all over again, but small. Except for Dard and Cruw, who are our sacrifice, it might have gone on and on, bringing its fire, its emptiness, its lack of life, so long as the Peshtak had the pulser. The Shumai have always been close to life. We have never denied it with walls or domes. Dard is in the middle of this life. If you come back here in the spring, you will find the mound of their grave scattered with flowers. The ferns will uncurl there, and wind sound in the trees overhead. When the sun sends light shafts down through the young leaves, it will strike the marker stone, and the stone will glow with its affirmation of their worth. It is not like the rod in an empty place. They will always be a part of this valley, that hill, as long as the leaves reach for light. That is the Shumai view, and the Pelbar sees their immortal part as rising beyond and above all that, as I have said, affirming them when there are no leaves, no light. The sharpness of our hurt will heal, and heal the quicker when we make these larger thoughts our medicine. It is hard, but that is what we have to do.”

  “So. Is that what you have done about your arm?”

  “That’s what I am doing, Sark, and trying to do. It is not done.”

  “Will it ever be accomplished?”

  “I don’t know, Sark. I don’t know. But I do know Dard and Cruw have given us a strong declaration of human worth. They came defending all of us. The Sentani will pass this way often enough, and they will clear the mound through the years, as we all will, if we come. That doesn’t give Dard back to you. But you have given him to all of us. We are a togetherness, and if they have died for us, we have to live well for them, illustrating their own sense of life, since they can’t.”

  “I will have to tell his mother. I wish you were there to say all these things.”

  “Ah. Who can tell a mother these things about her son? Her son.”

  “I am going to the prairies, Tor. I will winter on the Isso. I will need to face Flayer and tell her. But I can’t do that now. I can’t even tell myself. I think I am through with the running band, Tor.”