by Phillip Mann
“Can you see my future?”
“I can.”
“And …?”
Again the Craint laughed. “Oh, Master of Paxwax. I may know, but you may not. That law is inflexible. The future I can see depends on your not knowing it, so what good would my words be? ‘If only …’ is the silliest phrase in your language, and the most tragic. No regrets, Master Pawl. Remember that. Be of good cheer. You like words, Master Pawl, do you not?” Pawl nodded. “Well, here are words for you. Old words. Where I learnt them I no longer remember but they bob into my mind.” The Craint lifted its head and spoke loudly.
Age is an earth-warrior with power over all;
In its chains all struggle, in its prison keep.
Working its will, it crushes tree,
Rips twig, whips the standing ship
In the water and beats it to the ground.
It jaws birds, death-wrestles wolves,
Outlasts stones. It slays steel,
Bites iron with rust, and takes us too.
“You are talking of death.”
“I am, Master Pawl. It is time for us to part. I am honoured to have met you. But now I am tired. I long to join my brothers and my sisters. They are waiting for me. This journey is over, another journey begins. Climb down now.”
Pawl did as he was bidden. He was affected by the tone of the Craint. He could feel its weariness. He walked round the statue of the Craint with no head and a broken wing and moved down to the shore. “This statue must have been magnificent when it was all in one piece.”
“It was never in one piece. This is how it was built. It worked well. And now its work is done. There will be no more additions to this tower. Watch.”
Pawl watched. The statue wavered and vanished with a sound like a sudden intake of breath. Where the wing had rested in the water, the water swirled like ink. A few bubbles rose and then the water was still again.
The Craint stepped close to Pawl with its exaggerated high steps. It lowered its ugly face until it was close to Pawl and he could see the feathers which clustered round its moist eyes. “I doubt if I will affect your future if I tell you you are the most powerful of your species now drawing breath. I would be honoured if you would watch as the earth-warrior takes me in its chains.”
“Do you have a name?” asked Pawl.
“Call me Last of the Craint.” The great bird spread its wings and cupped the air. It ran a few ungainly steps with its wings flapping and then launched itself like a javelin. The wings beat and their tips slapped the water leaving swirling dimples. Slowly it rose, batting its way with powerful thrusts round the walls. It rose higher until it came to a level where the shining figures ended and there was only a vast darkness. It now seemed no bigger than a sea-gull, sliding with the wind off a headland. Pawl saw it hover, resting on an up draught, and then it dived. It drove its wings with all its power and in the middle of a stroke smashed itself against the stone wall. Pawl heard the impact. Feathers scattered, and the body, suddenly leaden, tumbled down through the air. It struck the water far from the boat and sank immediately. A feather drifted down and Pawl caught it and cried aloud, for its sharpness pricked his fingers.
He pushed away from the shore and waited. Within seconds he felt the boat tugged and then it began to race through the water. The boat travelled round the island and Pawl was able to look up at the figures depicted on the wall. As he passed below his own figure he saw it raise its arm and its yellow eyes flashed. Then the boat dived into the tunnel and he hunkered down in its bottom. He did not look up until he felt the movement cease, and then he found himself staring at a brilliant torch which was standing at the water’s edge.
Pawl clambered from the boat and sank up to the waist in the dark water. Using his arms as paddles he forced his way up on to the bank of rotting vegetation. He dragged his torch from the soft ooze and climbed up the bank.
Pawl found the archway. Outside it was still raining. Dimly through the darkness he could see the welcome lights of the Vanburgh. Its landing ramp was down.
“And what did you learn on your visit to the Craint?” It was Odin, speaking drowsily in the mind of Pawl, just before the mirrors began to flash to send them on the last journey to Elliott’s Pocket. It was the first time Odin had spoken to Pawl since his return to the Vanburgh.
“I learnt that the universe is vaster than my imaginings.”
“Ah. And how do you feel about that?”
“Stronger now. More ‘at home’. I think the Craint meant that I was part of some great movement.”
Before Odin could reply the mirrors began to spin, and Pawl lost himself …
… and when he again found himself he was whole and strong and aboard the Way Platform above the world called Lumb.
44
IN ELLIOTT’S POCKET
Pawl looked at himself ruefully in the myriad crystal mirrors of the Lumb Way Gate. There he stood, almost bald, with the last vestige of his once-luxuriant hair coiled behind his ears. He was thin, too, rather than muscled and his ribs showed clearly above his belly, which had somehow become a paunch. A pioneer of life! he thought. I’ll be lucky if Laurel even recognizes me. Then he winked to himself. His yellow eyes were undeniably his.
Odin had fared well. The transit had put life into him. The dissemination and restoration had eased the pain that radiated from his stone. He held close to Pawl in his mind as Pawl fussed about him and lifted him into his gravity cradle. He felt some vigour sluice through his fibres. “We will soon be there, Pawl. Then we can both rest. Don’t desert me.”
“Hush,” said Pawl, speaking aloud. “I won’t desert you, old friend. We have come such a long way together.”
Pawl wrapped Odin in the remains of his black garment of the Inner Circle and then covered his own nakedness with one of the light Way suits.
They left the Way Gate with Pawl leading Odin’s gravity cradle like a dog on a leash.
Pettet and Raleigh were waiting for them. Neither could hide their reaction when they saw how emaciated Pawl had become. Raleigh turned her face away from Odin.
They took them below, to the central room where the fire burned and where the singer had told the ballad of John Death Elliott. A full suite of rooms had been prepared for Pawl just off the central chamber.
“These are yours,” said Pettet. “Here you must rest and recover. No one will disturb you. Raleigh has contacted her people. Healers will be coming. You will be safe here in the Pocket.”
Pawl looked into the honest face of the giant and nodded. “Thank you for your kindness. We will stay one night. That is all.”
Pettet frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Tomorrow we will depart for Ultima Thule.”
Pettet’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Then he gathered himself. “Thule … that place … why?”
“Use your imagination, big man. What did you see on Thule?”
“I saw … I saw….” Comprehension came to Pettet. “Oh, Pawl. You are not hoping to find Laurel?”
“I am.”
“But …”
“Don’t give me any arguments. I have thought about this ever since my lady died. Do you remember what you once called Thule? You called it the place where the dead live. I remembered that. I know it won’t be Laurel, I know it will be something grown from my memories and my love, but perhaps I can fool myself. Perhaps I will find rest there. If not, well, no great matter. One place is as good as another to me now. But John Death Elliott ended his days there. And so shall I. I shall be in good company.”
Pettet did not speak. He merely shook his head and his long black curls tumbled over his shoulders.
“Tomorrow you will arrange a ship. I would like Haberjin to pilot it. I will take a landing pod down to Thule. And that is the end. For tonight I do not want any arguments or any discussion. Let us drink deep, man. Get Raleigh to play for us. Let me rock Lynn on my knee. Tell her stories. I wanted children, you know. Let us be simple. And tomorrow I will depa
rt as quietly as a corpse buried at sea. I want nothing more. Close the Pocket. Let the storm rage outside. Let Pawl have his rest.”
Pettet nodded. Being a man of the Pocket he would not try to impose his will on another. If this was what Pawl wanted, then so be it. He called for beer and food. He stoked the fire. He called for music.
“Well,” he said as people bustled about, “if I’m not to persuade you to stay here on Lumb with us, let me at least help you on Thule. I bet you haven’t thought of any of the practicalities, have you? You will be alone, except for whatever creature comes to you. You will have to eat. You need to sleep in the dry. Take one of our survival sleds. It will give you roof and comfort. We use them when we pioneer a new world.”
“Now you are talking. I will accept any help you can offer, except a means of contacting the world outside.”
“That is impossible anyway. No signals get into Thule. None escape. Will Odin live with you?”
“He will.”
Pettet nodded. “That is good. The little creature is dying before our eyes. Is it an illness or old age?”
“I do not know. Though we can talk with our minds, Odin will not tell me what is hurting him. He complains about his stone and that is all.”
Pettet mused on this. “Perhaps Thule is the place for him.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, I must disappoint you in one thing,” said Pettet finally. “I shall be your pilot tomorrow. Haberjin is not here. He is somewhere with Neddelia. She is about your business I think. The last I heard they were on Central. Perhaps they will return in a few days. Perhaps they will head out to the rim.”
“Perhaps,” said Pawl. “Perhaps. Perhaps is a strange word.”
45
ON CENTRAL: THE PROCTOR HOMEWORLD
Neddelia was enjoying herself.
After riding the space eddies of the Cherry Brake and breaking through the cordon which bound the Pocket, she and Haberjin set course for the nearest Proctor Gate, which circled the long-dead planet called Luxury. There they Gated to Central and Neddelia told tales of how her ship had been trapped in an old alien trap and how brigands with glaring yellow eyes had torn her ship apart and how she had been rescued by Captain Haberjin who had come lancing in from the heart of the Pocket. And there with her as living proof of her story was Captain Haberjin himself, who looked like a pirate and oiled himself with sweet-smelling unctions after the manner of young men. Haberjin affected the deep brogue of the Pocket, which was unintelligible to all except Neddelia. He spoke with gestures and with flashing eyes and Neddelia translated, telling of his adventures and boasting of his cruelty.
They were wined and dined on Lotus-and-Arcadia as well as on Central and they made love noisily at night.
Of course she was questioned closely, for the loss of a Central ship with its mighty symbol transformation generators was no slight thing. But she held to her story until her inquisitors were convinced that savages, with no deep knowledge of space physics, had despoiled her ship like monkeys pounding a typewriter with their fists.
Gradually the questions ceased. Neddelia resigned her position as Death Inspector, pleading that her nerve was broken. She used the might of her family to buy out her marriage and found herself free.
There remained the question of the “gifts” from Pawl Paxwax that she had carried deep into Central. Came the day she could not ignore their presence and she and Haberjin sat in their splendid apartment far beneath the steel skin of Central with the two boxes between them.
“I want to return to the Pocket,” said Haberjin.
Neddelia looked at him levelly over the boxes.
“Can I come with you, even if I destroy these?” she asked. “It is a hard thing to be asked to destroy everything that you grew up with. Think if you had to destroy the Pocket.”
“They are not the same.”
“No. Perhaps not. But answer my question.”
“Yes. You can come with me.”
“Would you tell people what had happened?”
“Yes.”
“You make it hard.”
“No. You want an easy life. You came here with one obligation. Now you have softened. You do not love your life here, but still you hesitate. Here, give me the boxes and I will break their seals and scatter their dust or whatever is in them and then we’ll go.”
Haberjin reached for the boxes but Neddelia struck his arm. “You will not.”
“That hurt.”
“Good.”
“Aristocratic cow.”
“Cross-eyed gypsy.”
“What….”
That night they lay in a tangle of clothing and bed linen when Neddelia awoke. Crawling out from under Haberjin’s arm she crossed to one of the boxes which still stood in the centre of the floor. She lifted its lid and in the soft light could just make out a dull grey shape. She touched it with her fingertip and gave a start of surprise, for it was as hard as glass and she received a slight shock. Within the greyness something swirled, like wine that holds candle flame. The spangle of lights strengthened, growing outwards until the whole of the “brain” came alive. The intensity of its light grew until Neddelia had to shade her eyes. Her shadow was cast, hard and black, against the wall and ceiling. The light seemed to push at her but there was no heat or pain, and then suddenly the Diphilus expanded. It flowed from the box like incandescent glass, pouring over the carpet and her hand where she supported herself on the floor. Neddelia screamed and stifled the scream for the Diphilus did not hurt her. Dimly she heard Haberjin stir and sit up and mutter an oath of awe.
As the Diphilus spread it lost its hard brilliance. Colours flowed in it. It grew to the height of a table and engulfed half the room.
Haberjin came to stand behind Neddelia and he rested his hand on the bright shiny back of the Diphilus. It was cool and unyielding as ebony. Where his hand had rested the pattern of his fingers remained for a few moments before dissolving into the flux.
“It is beautiful,” whispered Neddelia.
“It is very powerful,” said Haberjin.
In both their minds there grew an expanding bubble of laughter. It was good to be close to something so vital, so alive. It gave strength, a careless fun-loving strength.
They watched the Diphilus divide. It became several rivers, each of which crept like a glowing snake towards the walls.
The gleaming snakes crawled on the walls. They became transparent, though still bright. With a final flourish of energy they melded with the walls and were gone. The room was suddenly dark.
“What was that?” asked Neddelia.
Haberjin shrugged. “An alien … an intelligent one.”
“Where has it gone?”
“Exploring.”
“No. I mean how….”
“Ask Pawl Paxwax.”
Neddelia hesitated. “I’ve done it, haven’t I?”
“What?”
“Liberated an alien on my Homeworld.”
“Yes.”
“Now what’s going to happen?”
Haberjin thought for a few moments and then shrugged. “You’ve solved your problem.”
Later that day Neddelia and Haberjin chose to visit the garden deep inside Central. They wandered hand in hand down the long lines of fruit canes under the blue dome until they reached a place where the dome-roof met the curved floor of the garden. There was no one about, no gardeners. Here the garden was rough and wild. Hybrid flowers grew against the cool plastic and a small colony of ants toiled about its hill dragging in dead leaves.
Haberjin felt inside his loose jerkin and produced a neat box. They set it down on the path and broke its seal and opened its lid. Inside the Hooded Parasol lay like day-cut crocuses. But when they felt the light they stirred, and small black eyes on the ends of their stamens rose and peered. The largest of the Parasol flexed and began to inflate its petals. It expanded and rose and as it floated free of the box fine tendrils tumbled loose and trailed on the dusty path. Haberjin reached
out but Neddelia struck his hand. “They are dangerous, love. Pawl warned me.”
More of the Hooded Parasol came alive and lifted from the box. They seemed to share a common mind for they all drifted in the same direction like purple butterflies flying in unison. They came to the anthill and the largest of the Parasol trailed its glistening fronds over the hill. The ants attacked, swarming up towards the purple flower, but none made it for very far. Their limbs stuck. The Parasol expanded and lifted its harvest clear of the hill and then drew the small brown bodies up into its petals. When all its fronds were withdrawn it hung still, pulsing slightly and then it ejected a brown sputum which spattered the path. As if that were a signal the other Hooded Parasol moved in, trailing their fronds. One allowed its tendrils to be seized and carried into the ant’s nest. Then it expanded rapidly and rose, tearing open the side of the nest and revealing its teeming interior. The Parasol fed, and when they were gorged they drifted away among the fruit trees and were gone.
Haberjin looked at Neddelia and his face had a pallor under his dark skin. “That was horrible,” he said. “And what’s that smell? There aren’t any cats round here are there?”
Neddelia pointed to the stains on the path. “I think it comes from them, but it could be the smell of the Parasol. Come on. This is no place to stay. I’ve done my duty. Let us leave today.”
Haberjin wrinkled his nose and nodded.
Together they ran back down the path and out of the fruit garden. Hours later they Gated through to Luxury where their ship was tethered, waiting. They fired up their ship and felt it come alive as the gravity sensors turned space to a misty blue cloud about them.
“Where to?” asked Neddelia.
“I don’t mind. You decide,” said Haberjin settling back. “I think we have played our part in the story. We can go where we like, now.”
46
ULTIMA THULE
Below them Thule burned like green fire.
Carefully, like a live birth at sea, the survival rocket slid from the main body of the Pocket ship and, when it was clear, flared and turned and began to drop down to that fierce green surface.