Nova 2

by Anthology

  “Good day, Aunt,” he greeted her.

  “Good three-spans-past-high-sun,” she corrected him tartly. Temporal exactitude was important here. She clacked her lips and turned to stack her peat sods. Evan went on toward the village. The natives of Ardhvenne were one of the usual hominid variants, distinquished by rather unstable sex morphology on a marsupial base.

  Peat smoke wrinkled his nose as he came into the village street. It was lined by a double file of dry-rock huts, thatched with straw and set close together for warmth. Under the summer sun it was bleak enough. In winter it must be desolate.

  Signs of last night’s ceremonials were visible in the form of burnt-out resin brooms and native males torpid against the sunnier walls. A number of empty gourds lay in the puddles. On the shady side were mounds of dirty wool which raised small bald heads to stare at him. The local sheep-creatures, chewing cud. The native wives, Evan remembered, would now be in the houses feeding the young. There was a desultory clucking of fowl in the eaves. A young voice rose in song and fell silent.

  Evan moved down the street. The males’ eyes followed him in silence. They were a taciturn race, like many who lived by rocks and sea.

  It came to him that he had no idea at all what he was doing. He must be in profound shock or fugue. Why had he come here? In a moment he must turn back and submit himself to whatever was in store. He thought about that. A trial, undoubtedly. A long Reassessment mess. Then what? Prison? No, they would not waste his training. It would be CNPTS, Compulsory Non-Preferred Technicians Service. He thought about the discipline, the rituals. The brawling Tech Commons. The dorms. End of hope. And his uncle heartbroken.

  He shivered. He could not grasp the reality.

  What would happen if he didn’t go back? What if the ship had to leave tomorrow as programmed? It couldn’t be worth sterilizing this whole area just for him. He would be recorded as escaped, lost perhaps after a mental breakdown.

  He looked around the miserable village. The huts were dark and reeked inside. Could he live here? Could he teach these people anything?

  Before him was the headman’s house.

  “Good, uh, four-spans-past-high-sun, Uncle.”

  The headman clicked noncommittally. He was a huge-limbed creature, sprawled upon his lounging bench. Beside him was the young male Parag from whom Evan had obtained most of his local information.

  Evan found a dry stone and sat down. Above the huts streamed the unceasing mist-veils. The Clivorn was a shadow in the sky; revealed, hidden, revealed again. A naked infant wandered out, its mouth sticky with gruel. It came and stared at Evan, one foot scratching the other leg. No one spoke. These people were capable of convulsive activity, he knew. But when there was nothing urgent to be done they simply sat, as they had sat for centuries. Incurious.

  With a start Evan realized that he was comparing these scraggy hominids to the Scientist at ease in their ship. He must be mad. The ship—the very symbol of man’s insatiable search for knowledge! How could he be so insane, just because they had rejected his data—or rather, his non-data? He shook his head to clear the heresy.

  “Friend Parag,” he said thickly.

  Parag’s eyes came ’round.

  “Next sun-day is the time of going of the sky ship. It is possible that I-alone-without-co-family will remain here.”

  The chief’s eyes came open and swiveled toward him too.

  Parag clicked I-hear.

  Evan looked up at the misty shoulders of The Clivorn. There was sunlight on one of the nearly vertical meadows cradled in its crags. It was just past Ardhvenne’s summer solstice, the days were very long now. In his pocket was the emergency ration from the sled.

  Suddenly he knew why he was here. He stood up staring at The Clivorn. An’druinn, The Mountain of Leaving.

  “An easy homeward path, Uncle.” He had inadvertently used the formal farewell. He began to walk out of the village on the main Path. Other trails ran straight up the mountain flank behind the huts; the females used these to herd their flocks. But the main Path ran in long straight graded zigzags. On his previous trips he had gone along it as far as the cairn.

  The cairn was nothing but a crumbled double-walled fire hearth, strewn with the remains of gourds and dyed fleeces. The natives did not treat it as a sacred place. It was simply the lower end of the Path of Leaving and a good place to boil dyes.

  Beyond the cairn the Path narrowed to eroded gravel, a straight scratch winding over The Clivorn’s shoulders to the clouds. The dead and dying were carried up this way, Evan knew, and abandoned when they died or when the bearers had had enough. Sometimes relatives returned to pile stones beside the corpse, and doubtless to retrieve the deceased’s clothing. He had already passed a few small heaps of weathered rocks and bones.

  Up this path also were driven those criminals or witches of whom the tribe wished to be rid. None ever returned, Parag told him. Perhaps they made it to another village. More likely, they died in the mountains. The nearest settlement was ninety kilometers along the rugged coast.

  He topped the first long grade over the lowest ridge, walking easily with the wind at his back. The gravel was almost dry at this season though The Clivorn was alive with springs. Alongside ran a soppy sponge of peat moss and heather in which Evan could make out bones every few paces now.

  When the Path turned back into the wind he found that the thin mists had already hidden the village below. A birdlike creature soared over him, keening and showing its hooked beak. One of the tenders of The Clivorn’s dead. He watched it ride off on the gale, wondering if he were a puzzle to its small brain.

  When he looked down there were three olive figures ahead of him on the Path. The native Parag with two other males. They must have climbed the sheep-trails to meet him here. Now they waited stolidly as he plodded up.

  Evan groped through the friends-met-on-a-joumey greeting.

  Parag responded. The other two merely clicked and stood waiting, blocking the Path. What did they want? Perhaps they had come after a strayed animal.

  “An easy home-going,” Evan offered in farewell. When they did not stir he started uphill around them.

  Parag confronted him.

  “You go on the Path.”

  “I go on the Path,” Evan confirmed. “I will return at sun-end.”

  “No,” said Parag. “You go on the Path of Leaving.”

  “I will return,” insisted Evan. “At sun-end we will have friendly speech.”

  “No.” Parag’s hand shot out and gripped Evan’s jacket. He yanked.

  Evan jumped back. The others surged forward. One of them was pointing at Evan’s shoes. “Not needful.”

  Evan understood now. Those who went on this Path took nothing. They assumed he was going to his death and they had come for his clothing.

  “No!” he protested. “I will return! I go not to Leaving!”

  Scowls of olive anger closed in. Evan realized how very poor they were. He was stealing valuable garments, a hostile act.

  “I go to village now! I will return with you!”

  But it was too late. They were pawing at him, jerking the strange fastenings with scarred olive claws. Dirty hair-smell in his nose. Evan pushed at them and half his jacket ripped loose. He began running straight up the hillside. They started after him. To his surprise he saw that his civilized body was stronger and more agile than theirs. He was leaving them behind as he lunged up from sheep-track to track.

  At the ridge he risked a look back and shouted, “Friends! I will return!” One of them was brandishing a sheep-goad.

  He whirled and pounded on up the ridge. Next moment he felt a hard blow in his side and went reeling. The sheep-goad clattered by his legs. His side—they had speared him! He gulped air on a skewer of pain and made himself run on. Up. No track here but a smooth marsh tipped skyward. He ran stumbling on the tussocks, on and up. Mist-wraiths flew by.

  At a rock cornice he looked back. Below him three misty figures were turning away. Not fo
llowing, up The Clivorn.

  His breathing steadied. The pain in his side was localized now. He wedged his tom sleeve between arm and ribs and began to climb again. He was on the great sinew that was The Clivorn’s lowest shoulder. As he climbed he found he was not quite alone in the streaming wraith-world; now and then a sheep bounded up with an absurd kek-kek-kek and froze to stare at him down its pointed nose.

  He was, he realized, a dead man as far as the village was concerned. A dead man to the ship, a dead man here. Could he make the next village, wounded as he was? Without compass, without tools? And the pocket with his ration had been torn away. His best hope was to catch one of the sheep-creatures. That was not easily done by a single man. He would have to devise some sort of trap.

  Curiously uncaring of his own despair he climbed on. The first palisades were behind him now. Before him was a steep meadow moist with springs of clear peat water, sprigged with small flowers. Great boulders stood, or rather hung here, tumbled by the vanished batteries of ice. In the milky dazzle their cold black shadows were more solid than they. The sun was coming with the wind, lighting the underside of the cloud-wrack above him.

  He clambered leaning sideways against the wind, his free hand clutching at wet rocks, tufts of fem. His heart was going too fast. Even when he rested it did not slow but hammered in his chest. The wound must be deeper than he’d thought. It was burning now and it hurt increasingly to lift his feet. Presently he found that he had made no progress at all but marched in place drunkenly for a dozen steps.

  He ground his teeth, gasping through them. The task was to focus on a certain rock ahead—not too far—and push himself up into the sky. One rock at a time. Rest. Pick another, push on. Rest. Push on. Finally he had to stop between rocks. Breath was a searing ache. He wiped at the slaver on his jaw.

  Make ten steps, then. Stop. Ten steps. Stop. Ten steps . . .

  A vague track came underfoot. Not a sheep-track, he was above the sheep. Only the huge creatures of the clouds ranged here. The track helped, but he fell often to his knees. On ten steps. Fall. Struggle up. Ten steps. On your knees in the stones, someone had said. There was no more sunlight.

  He did not at first understand why he was facing rocky walls. He looked up, stupid with pain, and saw he was against the high, the dreadful cliffs. Somewhere above him was The Clivorn’s head. It was nearly dark.

  He sobbed, leaning on the stone flanks. When his body quieted he heard water and staggered to it among the rocks. A spouting streamlet, very cold, acid-clear. The Water of Leaving. His teeth rattled.

  While he was drinking a drumming sound started up in the cliff beside him and a big round body caromed out, smelling of fat and fur. A giant rock-coney. He drank again, shivering violently, and pulled himself to the crevice out of which the creature had come. Inside was a dry heathery nest. With enormous effort he got himself inside and into the coney’s form. It was safe here, surely. Safe as death. Almost at once he was unconscious.

  Pain woke him in the night. Above the pain he watched the stars racing the mists. The moons rose and cloud-shadows walked on the silver wrinkled sea below him. The Clivorn hung over him, held him fast. He was of The Clivorn now, living its life, seeing through its eyes.

  Over the ridgeline, a hazy transience. Moon-glints on a forest of antlers. The beasts of Clivorn were drifting in the night. Clouds streamed in and they were gone. The wind moaned unceasing, wreathing the flying scud.

  Moonlight faded to rose-whiteness. Cries of birds. Outside his den a musky thing lapped at the stream, chittered and fled. He moved. He was all pain now, he could not lie still. He crawled out into the pale rose dawn hoping for warmth, and drank again at Clivorn’s water, leaning on the rock.

  Slowly, with mindless caution he looked around. Above the thrumming of the wind he heard a wail. It rose louder.

  An opening came in the cloud stream below. He saw the headland beyond the bay. On it was a blinding rose-gold splinter. The Ship. Thin vapor was forming at its feet.

  While he watched it began to slide gently upwards, faster and faster. He made a sound as if to call out, but it was no use. Clouds came between. When they opened again the headland was empty. The wailing died, leaving only the winds of Clivorn.

  They had left him.

  Cold came round his heart. He was utterly lost now. A dead man. Free as death.

  His head seemed light now and he felt a strange frail energy. Up on his right there seemed to be a ledge leading onto a slanting shield of rock. Could he conceivably go on? The thought that he should do something about killing a sheep troubled him briefly, died. He found he was moving upward. It was like his dreams of being able to soar. Up—easily—so long as he struck nothing, breathed without letting go of the thing in his side.

  He had reached the slanting shield and was actually climbing now. Hand up and grasp, pull, foot up, push. A few steps sidling along a cleft. The Clivorn’s gray lichened face was close to his. He patted it foolishly, caught himself from walking into space. Hand up, grasp. Pull. Foot up. How had he come so high? Handhold. Left hand would not grip hard. He forced it, felt warm wet start down his side. Pull.

  The rocks had changed now. No longer smooth but wildly crystalloid. He had cut his cheek. Igneous extrusion weathered into fantastic shelves.

  “I am above the great glaciation,” he muttered to the carved chimney that rose beside him, resonating in the gale. Everything seemed acutely clear. His hand was caught overhead.

  He frowned up at it, furious. Nothing there. He wrenched. Something. He was perched, he saw on a small snug knob. Wind was a steady shrieking. Silver-gold floodlights wheeled across him; the sun was high now, somewhere above the cloud. One hand was still stuck in something above his head. Odd.

  He strained at it, hauling himself upright.

  As he rose, his head and shoulders jolted ringingly. Then it was gone and he was spread-eagled, hanging on The Clivorn, fighting agony. When it ebbed he saw that there was nothing here. What was it? What had happened?

  He tried to think, decided painfully that it had been an hallucination. Then he saw that the rock beside his face was sterile. Lichenless. And curiously smooth, much less wind-eroded.

  Something must have been shielding it slightly for a very long time. Something which had resisted him and then snapped away.

  An energy-barrier.

  Bewildered he turned his head into the wind-howl, peered along the cliffs. To either side of him a band of unweathered rock about a meter broad stretched away level around The Clivorn’s crags. It was overhung in places by the rocks above. Invisible from a flyer, really.

  This must be the faint shelf-line he had found on the scans. The effect of long shielding by an energy-barrier. But why hadn’t the detectors registered this energy? He puzzled, finally saw that the barrier could not be constant. It must only spring into existence when something came near, triggered it. And it had yielded when he pushed hard. Was it set to allow passage to larger animals which could climb these rocks?

  He studied the surfaces. How long? How long had it been here, intermittently protecting this band of rock? Millennia of weathering, above and below. It was above the ice-line. Placed when the ice was here? By whom?

  This sourceless, passive energy was beyond all human technology and beyond that of the few advanced aliens that man had so far encountered.

  There rose within him a tide of infinite joy, carrying on it like a cork his rational conviction that he was delirious. He began to climb again. Up. Up. The barrier was fifty meters below him now. He dislodged a stone, looked under his arm to see it fall. He thought he detected a tiny flash, but he could not see whether it had been deflected or not. Birds or falling stones would make such sparkles. That could have been the flickering he had glimpsed.

  He climbed. Wetness ran down his side, made red ropes. The pain rode him, he carried it strongly up. Handhold. Wrench. Toehold. Push. Rest. Handhold. “I am pain’s horse,” he said aloud.

  He had been in dense c
louds for some time now, the wind-thrum loud in the rock against his body. But something was going wrong with his body and legs. They dragged, would not lift clear. After a bit he saw what it was. The rock face had leveled. He was crawling rather than climbing.

  Was it possible he had reached The Clivorn’s brow?

  He rose to his knees, frightened in the whirling mists. Beside him was a smear of red. My blood with Clivorn’s, he thought. On my knees in the stones. My hands are dirty. Sick hatred of The Clivorn washed through him, hatred of the slave for the iron, the stone that outwears his flesh. The hard lonely job . . . Who was Simmelweiss? “Clivorn I hate you,” he mumbled weakly. There was nothing here.

  He swayed forward—and suddenly felt again the gluey resistance, the jolting crackle and release. Another energy-barrier on Clivorn’s top.

  He fell through it into still air, scrabbled a length and collapsed, hearing the silence. The rocks were wonderfully cool to his torn cheek. But they were not unweathered here, he saw. It came to him slowly that this second barrier must have been activated by the first. It was only here when something pushed up through the one below.

  Before his eyes as he lay was a very small veined flower. A strange cold pulse boomed under his ear. The Clivorn’s heartbeat, harmonics of the gale outside his shield.

  The changing light changed more as he lay there. Some time later, he was looking at the stones scattered beyond the little plant. Water-clear gold pebbles, with here and there between them a singular white fragment shaped like a horn. The light was very odd. Too bright. After a while he managed to raise his head.

  There was a glow in the mist ahead of him.

  His body felt disconnected, and inexplicable agonies whose cause he could no longer remember bit into his breath. He began to crawl clumsily. His belly would not lift. But his mind was perfectly clear now and he was quite prepared.

  Quite unstartled, as the mist passed, to see the shining corridor—or path, really, for it was made of a watery stonework from which the golden pebbles had crumbled—the glowing corridor-path where no path could be, stretching up from The Clivorn’s summit among the rushing clouds.