The creature touched the door behind it, and the shaggy brown bark moved-but now Xylina saw that rather than swinging open as a door in an ordinary wall might, the wood actually receded, irising open large enough to permit the wagons to move through. She urged her mule out into the sunlight beyond, and it was eager to go.
On the other side of the Thorn-Wall, she saw that the branches on this side, besides sporting thorns and little leaves, were ablaze with palm-sized, three-lobed, flat, vermilion flowers. What she had taken for a slab of wood seemed to be a huge, flat trunk of some other kind of plant, grown athwart the entrance to the Thorn-Wall, its thornless branches mingling in apparent symbiosis with the thorny ones. The brown bark of its vining tendrils twined among the gray of the Thorn-Wall, and it, too nourished palm-sized, trumpet-shaped flowers, of a deep cerulean. It was an unexpectedly lovely sight, and it took her breath away. The air here within this place was perfumed with scents she could not name, all of them mingling to form a heady, delicious aroma. The sun shone down, but without the punishing heat of the desert on the other side of the wall. The heat felt wonderful after the dark and cold of the tunnel.
She turned to look about her, and could hardly believe her eyes. On the other side of this growth, there was arid near-desert. But here-here there was a veritable jungle of vegetation of every sort, most of which she could not put any kind of name to beyond that of “tree,” “flower,” or “bush.”
Huge silvery trees reached for the sky, smooth barked, and branchless for hundreds of cubits, then branching out with mushroom-shaped growth at their very tops; the leaves were a golden-green, and formed a lovely dome-shape above trunks so perfectly smooth that they could have been created on a lathe. Beneath these trees grew clusters of smaller trees. Some resembled the oaks and ashes and poplars that she was familiar with. Others were strange things that dangled sausage-like brownish-green growths on long vines beneath their branches, or grew huge, red and yellow fruits the size of both her hands. There were even trees that seemed to have very little foliage at all, but consisted mostly of trunks with small twiggy growths at the top, covered with tiny emerald leaves and white flowers.
Among all these were trees that were stranger yet. Akin to the plant that barred the entrance to the Thorn-Wall, these were round rather than flat, with enormous, barrel-like trunks and slender, flower-covered, viny branches. Those trunks were so huge that they were larger than Xylina’s house in girth, and reached twenty or thirty cubits tall or more. These trees were riddled with holes-
Holes which had been fitted with glass windows, and beaded curtains; holes which sported balconies of twisted, polished vines, and stairs which spiraled down the sides of the parent trunk.
Were these-houses? It seemed as if they were, yet how could they have been formed from the flesh of still living trees?
Even as she gaped at them, a smaller version of the creature guarding the entrance spilled out of one of the doors, ran laughing down the staircase, its pallid hair flying like a flag, and ran off into the undergrowth. It sported a kind of skintight singlet of brilliant scarlet and violet-pink.
The creature that had met them emerged from the door behind the last wagon, and stroked the bark. The portal irised closed again. “Simply follow the road,” it said, with evident indifference. “We are educated beings. Most of us speak either your tongue, Pacha, or both; many languages are part of our learning from childhood. You cannot become lost, for if you do not take any turnings, this road will lead you to the portal in the Thorn-Wall on the other side of our land. If you wish to purchase food, ask along the way. If you wish to make a camp, you may do so at any clearing linked to the road.”
It started to turn away, then turned back, as if it had suddenly thought of something. “We permit nothing to be killed,” it said, sternly. “Do not presume to cut wood for your fires, nor take what you think to be game for your meals. I can see by your clothing and equipage that you are still barbarous enough to kill for the feeding of your bodies; we do not do so here.”
Then it turned its back upon them, and walked away before Xylina could think of anything to say. In a moment, the foliage beside the road had closed about it, hiding it from view.
Ware looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as she stared after the creature, rather taken aback. She had feared many things; it seemed that the worst these creatures could be bothered to greet them with was contempt.
Ware seemed to feel the same astonishment and resentment. “Sofriendly,” he drawled, in a voice heavy with irony. “Do you know, I believe I prefer the Pacha.”
She managed a smile; Faro chuckled.
“For once, demon,” the slave said, “I believe I agree with you.”
Before they had traveled a league, Xylina had grown heartily weary of being the object of so much unpleasant attention. The inhabitants of this place-which, she had learned, was called “Sylva”-seemed to treat her and her expedition as a kind of circus-cavalcade of freaks, when they were not regarding them as if they were some kind of unreasoning beasts.
The inhabitants, dressed in a myriad of odd, brightly-colored costumes that displayed their sexlessly beautiful bodies as if they were pleasure-slaves, gathered curiously beside the road as they made their way along it. Everywhere the result was the same, the natives pointing and making comments in their own tongue, which was a singsong affair that reminded her of the chanting of priestesses.
And from the laughter that most of those comments elicited, she was fairly certain that none of them were flattering.
The men were just as uncomfortable under this scrutiny as she was; the column drew close together, as if to minimize the amount of time anyone would have to spend under those critical blue eyes.
Every one of the inhabitants looked like every other; even the children were no more than miniature copies of the adults. Xylina had the uncanny feeling that she was traveling through a land of cast-clay dolls: beings as sexless and identical as the cheap toys sold for boy-children in the marketplaces of Mazonia. As she continued to pass these creatures, she became aware of something else as well- none of these beings showed any signs of aging. Their faces were all unlined and placid; their hair the same white-gold, with no threads of gray. That unnerved her further; were these creatures immortal?
It was difficult to tell time with so much of the sky covered by branches, but the hints of deepening shadows gave her the notion that it might be time to call a halt. Accordingly, she began to watch for one of the clearings the first Sylvan had told her of.
She soon found one: it seemed to have a well with a hand-pump and a long trough for water beneath the elaborate spout. That was something of a relief; at least there would be real water for drinking and cooking, and they would not need to use the stale stuff in their water-casks.
She directed the expedition to begin making camp, and took her mule off to one side to picket it for the night. Ware joined her, and for once she welcomed the demon’s company. He seemed far more human than any of these creatures.
While they were unsaddling, one of the Sylvans, its mask-like face actually creased with a faint frown, approached them with a hint of aggression in its posture.
“What are you doing with these poor, gentle beasts?” the Sylvan demanded. “Why are you torturing them like this? What gives you the right to treat them like slaves, exploit and abuse them?”
Since Xylina’s mule was cropping the grass with every evidence of content, she could not for a moment imagine what the creature was talking about. And as for rights-an animal could not reason, and had no responsibilities, so how could it have rights? Didn’t having rights also mean that you had to take on responsibilities too?
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” she said carefully. “Could you be a bit more specific?”
“Why are you forcing these helpless creatures to bear you on their backs?” the Sylvan asked angrily. “Why are you forcing them to pull your wagons?”
Xylina blinked at it. “They�
�re horses,” she said finally, as if speaking to a child. “They’re mules. I feed and care for them; they earn that by serving me. It’s their job.”
That seemed to enrage the Sylvan further. “You are not content with enslaving your own kind, but you must torture and oppress even the poor animals, who are utterly helpless to resist you! They cannot escape your unwelcome attentions, they can do nothing to protect their freedom! You oppress them, and they must bear with whatever you choose!” it exclaimed, putting one hand protectively on the shoulder of Ware’s stallion. “I demand that you-”
What the Sylvan was about to demand, Xylina never discovered, for at that moment, Ware’s horse, a high-tempered beast who did not suffer the hand of anyone but his master upon him, reacted. With a squeal of rage he whipped his head about on his long flexible neck, and sank his huge white teeth into the Sylvan’s shoulder.
The Sylvan screamed and jerked free, its clothing torn and bloody, its shoulder lacerated. It fell into Xylina’s mule, who laid his ears back, and with a joyous look on its face, kicked with all his might.
The Sylvan flew through the air and landed in an undignified heap several cubits away. A dozen or so of its fellows gathered about it, and helped it, weeping, to its feet. Surrounded by horrified Sylvans, it limped off into the darkness.
Ware looked at Xylina with suppressed laughter in his eyes. “I suppose we should punish the beasts, but-”
“Oh no,” she replied, strangling her own mirth. “No, that would only confirm our barbarous natures in their eyes. After all, the poor, helpless beasts cannot defend themselves against us.”
Ware turned his attention back to unsaddling his horse, but his shaking shoulders told Xylina that he was silently laughing.
They finished picketing their animals, and went to fetch the mules from the wagons. Faro brought his own mule to the picket-line, and was accosted halfway there by yet another Sylvan. Xylina was near enough to overhear every word it said.
It looked at his riding-breeches, boots, and light leather armor with disdain, standing directly in his path so that he could not avoid a confrontation with it. “Murderer!” it said. “Do you know how many poor, helpless animals died so that you might flaunt their skins on your back?”
Xylina saw Faro’s face go blank; he looked very stupid at that moment, and she knew from experience that he was about to respond with something as scathing as possible.
Then he smiled; Xylina recognized that smile. It was the same one with which he had greeted his attackers in the street. That seemed a lifetime ago! “As a matter of fact,” he replied jovially, “I do. I killed them all myself. It was great fun. Would you step out of my path, or would you care to become a tunic?”
The Sylvan’s mouth worked silently for a moment, as it tried to deal with Faro’s reply. As it stood there, face twisted with distress, the slave reached forward and lightly pinched a fold of the skin of its arm between his thumb and forefinger.
“You’d make a very nice tunic,” he said helpfully. “Gloves, too, I think. Although I doubt you’d put up enough of a fight to make it entertaining. Still, my mule has acquired a taste for man-flesh since I’ve had him-and you look soft and sweet. I think you’d please him.”
That was too much for the Sylvan, who fled in terror.
They were not disturbed for the rest of the evening.
Ware had plans for this evening that he preferred Xylina not know about. He waited until Xylina had set up the camp, using her magic to create a barrier-wall between her people and the prying eyes of the Sylvans. He knew why she was doing this, although she had said nothing to him or to Faro. It was not for protection, so much as to preserve some semblance of privacy, and he heartily agreed with her. In all his experience, he had never encountered people quite like these, and he feared that they were impolite and impolitic enough to march directly into the encampment for more of their lectures, if they were not held out by a physical barrier.
He wanted to discover a few things about these people on his own, and thought that he might best do so if he could get away from the rest of the party.
He watched patiently until darkness, then used his ability to dematerialize to pass the barrier that Xylina had created around the camp. When he emerged on the other side, he found that he was alone. Evidently the Sylvans’ passion for freeing helpless creatures and confronting the murderers of animals did not outlast being confronted with an unyielding and unresponsive barrier.
Although they had been told not to leave the road, Ware decided that a look around this strange place was in order. The more information he had to bring back to Xylina, the more valuable he would be to her. And he wanted passionately to be of value to her. If she came to value him, she would be open to more intimate feelings in time. Already, she trusted him in some small things-and he had managed to make her share moments of humor with him as well. In a way, he blessed the road that had brought them all here, for in comparison to these Sylvans, he looked positively human.
There was a pathway leading from the road, lit by a succession of dimly-glowing blossoms of some night-blooming plant. It had occurred to him, as soon as he saw the sort of life these people led, why they had considered plants to be contraband. They evidently manipulated plants in a variety of sophisticated ways, until they served every purpose possible. Foreign plants might carry disease that could wipe out entire species of the plants the Sylvans had come to depend on. What would they do, for instance, if their house-trees began to die? Live in tents? He wondered what the trees were like inside, how they were grown. It was true that the only living part of a tree was just beneath the bark, and that birds often lived inside cavities in hollowed-out trees, but how could people do so?
He spotted one of the house-trees just off to the side of the path, and on impulse, took cover among the shadows. He saw two of the Sylvans leaving it, going down the twisted vines that served as a staircase. They walked hand-in-hand down the path away from him. Now it was the time to satisfy his curiosity, while the owners of this tree were away.
He waited, making certain that he would not be seen, then instead of climbing up the usual way, he simply passed through the rough bark-wall of the tree.
The notion of living inside a tree had seemed romantic: living so closely with nature, at one with the world. But once inside this peculiar dwelling, he found it was something other than romantic.
The floor was soft and pulpy, far from level, rather unpleasant to walk on. The rooms were dark, cramped and oddly shaped, with little space for furniture. In fact, there was little in the way of furniture: mostly large pillows for seating, and larger ones for sleeping. There seemed no
place to prepare food or store it; perhaps they ate communally. Clothing was hung in a small room, from a rod wedged across the middle of it. He could find no bathing room, and the room for elimination was a simple primitive jakes, no more sophisticated than a poor Mazonite’s outhouse. There was a peculiar smell, both sharp and damp, and it appeared from the marks on the walls about the windows that they were not entirely weather-tight.
So much for romance.
Ware passed back out of the house, and followed in the wake of the two owners. In a moment, a smell of cooking wafted on the breeze from ahead of him, confirming at least one of his guesses, that these Sylvans ate communally.
A glow of light warned him that he was about to encounter the Sylvans again. He slowed his steps, hoping to see something of the strange creatures before they saw him. Perhaps he could pick one a little more sympathetic than the last few to pose his questions to.
The path dead-ended in a sizable clearing, with an outdoor kitchen set up in the midst of it. Large pots simmered over carefully tended fires, and Sylvans both adult and child walked or sat in groups. They were talking and eating from bowls containing what he assumed to be a soup or stew of some kind. No one noticed him, there in the shadows at the entrance, and he took his time looking the Sylvans over.
He could not tell if any of these
people had been privy to the unpleasant encounters earlier, but looking closely, he finally saw something he had seen on no other face thus far-the slight signs of aging. It was on one of the Sylvans sitting and eating nearby, and the only one who seemed to be doing so alone. It had faint wrinkles around its mouth, crows-feet at the corners of its eyes, and its hair had a few streaks of coarser white amid the silken silvery blond.
Ware approached the creature cautiously; it looked in his direction as he neared. “Ah,” it said. “You are one of the barbarian strangers, are you not?” It seemed unconscious of its rudeness. “Have you any questions? I am the oldest Sylvan here, and I should be able to answer anything you care to know.”
As Ware approached and took a seat at its side, the creature said something to one of its fellows about “getting the barbarian proper food.” He understood the creature only imperfectly, since it spoke so quickly its words blurred together. As the second Sylvan went off towards the cooking pots, the first turned his attention back to Ware. “I am Sharras,” it said. “What would you like to know?”
Ware hesitated for a moment, but the creature’s opening line gave him an opportunity he could not pass by. “You say you are the oldest Sylvan here,” he replied, “And yet it is true that you all seem incredibly young and vital-how is it you remain that way?”
“Proper nutrition,” the Sylvan said, proudly. “We consume nothing of animal nature. To consume such things is to degrade the flesh; we consume nothing that is not pure.” Ware took a glance into the bowl of soup that had been brought to him: nothing but vegetables, with cubes of something white. Politely, he ate a bite; it seemed harmless, but nothing to be excited about, and the white stuff was virtually tasteless. “I am sure,” he replied politely. “But how old are you?”
“Oh, a little above forty years,” Sharras replied. Ware concealed his surprise. From the Sylvan’s words and attitude, he had assumed that the creature was much older, well over a hundred. It appeared that this “proper nutrition” was no better at retarding the effects of aging than any other regimen.
If I Pay Thee Not in Gold Page 24