Or, on a gentler slope: the pod moves more slowly, closes before it reaches the brink, then catches, halts. It lies there on the bank above the river. If it does not go into the river, will it ever open?
Another day passed while he turned the problem over again and again. The rotting forest was turning black and sending out clouds of stench for half a league around the deserted playground. The waterfowl had abandoned that part of the river.
Returning to the place he had chosen, he found that the sickness had started there. The grass was turning yellow, brown at the tips. His hesitation ended. He went to the vine in the forest, found it still healthy. He cut a pod, taking care to get a good length of vine with it. Still without knowing what he meant to do, he dragged it back to the riverbank and laid it on the slope. Below, the water rushed smoothly by. He tossed in a dry twig, watched it dart away out of sight.
He was lightheaded with fasting. He thought, if water flowed here on the ground, it would wash the pod down into the river. But water ran in its own fashion. The river raced below him, cold and swift. Or fire: if he could tie the vine to a tree, perhaps by a smaller vine, then build a fire under it to burn through the vine... But what if the fire went out; or what if it spread in the dry grass, and reached the pod before it burned through the vine?
Then he saw the answer in its simplicity. He went into the forest again, cut down a tough, thin creeper and trimmed it to a single length of half a dozen ells. The creeper was strong: he could not break it in his hands.
Some dry yellow gourds caught his eye; one was nearly two ells long. He cut it from the vine; it was light and hollow; seeds rattled inside it. He imagined the gourd tied to one end of the creeper, the pod to the other, the creeper passing from one to the other around a stake or sapling. The pod, with himself inside it, would be heavier, it would pull the gourd around the stake and both would fall into the river. But if the gourd were full of water...
Kneeling on the riverbank, he cut a large hole near the stem of the gourd, then thrust it underwater and held it until the last of the air bubbled out. He raised the slippery thing with difficulty; it weighed as much as he did.
He laid the gourd down, careful not to spill it, and traced with his eye the way the line should run, from the gourd to a stake driven into the ground, then down to the pod. He saw himself puncturing the gourd, the water dribbling out. Thorinn lies down in the pod, which closes over him. At length the gourd, growing lighter, glides up the slope; the pod, moving down, keeps the line taut; the gourd reaches the stake...
But the stake should not be there. It might catch the curved neck of the gourd, the creeper knotted around it, the knobby surface of the gourd itself. Yet the stake must be there in the first place, to hold the pod.
Dissatisfied, he thought of a moveable peg, a wooden hook. He searched among the dead branches in the forest, found a forked limb with a projecting stub that was smooth and no bigger than his thumb. He held the limb this way and that: tilted up, the stub would hold the loop of cord; tilt it down, and the cord would slide off freely. But how to make it tilt? Suddenly, in his mind, gourd, forked limb, cord all came together, and he knew.
He dropped the forked limb near the gourd and went back into the forest. Half-buried in the undergrowth was a bigger limb, three ells long and as thick as his thigh. With much toil he dragged it out and set it crossways on the slope, wedging the ends behind a shrub and a stone. The smaller limb he set with its stem on the log, the forked ends on the slope above it. The projecting stub stood straight up. Now he carried the heavy gourd up behind the log and laid it down, with care, in the embrace of the forked branch. With a length of creeper he lashed the gourd securely to the branch. He picked up the rest of the creeper, made a loop in one end, slipped it over the smooth projecting stub, and leaned back with all his weight. The gourd did not move.
He tied the other end of the creeper to the pod-vine, then placed the pod directly below the log, within an ell of the bank over the river. He examined his work again, and saw that it was good. The water would run out of the punctured gourd, its weight would lessen; the greater weight of the pod would drag it forward, the forked limb would tilt, the cord would slip off the stub. All that remained was to do it. Thorinn slowly put on his garments, made sure that all his possessions were in the wallet, sheathed his sword. The pink, soft pod-halves gaped open. Below him he could hear the unending rush of the water.
Once more he examined every part of the engine he had made. He knelt behind the log, looked at the heavy-bellied curve of the gourd between the forks of the limb. He drew his sword, set the point against the bottom of the gourd, then hesitated. He found himself thinking of other ways, of somehow ascending the cataract at the other end of the valley, or finding the doorway in the sky... Go down, said the voice in his mind, and he thrust the sword in. Water spurted; when he withdrew the blade, a thin stream ran from the gash, twisting as it went, rebounding in lazy droplets from the turf below. Thorinn got up and went down the slope to the waiting pod. Its pink halves gaped in invitation. In sick disgust, he stepped into it, felt it loathsomely soft under his feet. His muscles jumped with the desire to get away from it, but he made himself sit down, then lie back in the pod's fleshy embrace. He saw a narrowing strip of sky, then the podflesh came slowly and smotheringly against his face. The rush of the water below faded to silence. He struggled to get out, and found it quite easy. The pod turned to mist, and he was free under a curious twilit sky, walking without fear in a land where interesting things were happening, and where friendly people, whose faces he could not quite see, were speaking to him in words he almost seemed to understand. He realized that he had lost his sword, and that alarmed him faintly, but when he looked again it was there, bright and shining at his waist. Then he realized it was gone again, but it did not seem to matter. The things that were happening and the things said to him were so interesting and pleasant that years went by in this way without any weariness, and it seemed to him that he could well congratulate himself on having attained this mode of life, so much better in every way than the other; and he pitied those who were still groaning with toil in that former life. He mentioned this to one or two of his companions, and they agreed entirely; he knew this by their voices, although their words never became entirely clear. Then after a long time something unpleasant began to happen. It came to him from a direction in which he could not defend himself, nor could the others help him. It had no face or meaning, but he could not ignore it; it receded, then it came back again, more brutally demanding than ever. He saw that something could be done, but it would mean giving up all his ease and pleasure to the end of time, and while he hesitated, the thing came back once more, and now it had a sound: the roar of water.
5
“ ^”
How Thorinn entered a treasure cave and found a magic box that could speak, albeit foolishly.2957 a. d.:
In this yer the wyse men forwiste that er 50 yer be paced our Sonne wolde brenne so breme thathit wolde roste us all lyk mete in a forneys, and wolde be our bane.Than spake som and seyde: "Maken we a char of this our Erthe; so shal we flee our Sonnes fyrand seke another sterre. "
Yet others answerde: "So eek shal we lese our eir, for hit wol frese, but that we wirken a greetroofe over-thwart the world: and of which matere wirken we swich a roofe, that of hits owenwighte hit ne shal falle?"
Than sterted oon that seyde: "Wirken we a blader fulfild of eir! So shal our roofe kepe eir, whyleir kepe eek the roofe!"
So they bigane, and swinkede ful 20 yer in this werke.
Water stung his eyes, his nose. The roaring blackness whirled around him. He struggled against it, but his body was like a stone. Water surged over his face again. Half strangled, he struck out, and found the soft edges of the pod under his hands. His eyes were open but he could see nothing. The pod tilted, shuddered; the roaring of the water was beneath him. He floundered, trying to turn over; the pod tilted and he felt the black water sucking at his legs. He
strained to pull himself against the pod. It was canted, half out of the water. The water roared black beneath it, trying to drag him down. He struck out with his feet, touched slippery stone, then lost it. It seemed to him that the pod was jammed against some crevice down which the water was pouring. He groped again, found footing once more, but the pod swung and he was kicking in the water again.
He worked his grasp higher on the pod, fighting the tug of the water. He was shaking with cold. Here the pod narrowed; he was able to get one arm under it, grasp it from the opposite side. Hanging underneath in this way, he put his foot back, touched bottom, and braced himself precariously. The current streamed against the back of his legs. He turned clumsily, one hand on the pod. The pod began to swing; letting it go, he leaped. The water swept his legs out from under him and he was down, pawing the slippery stone underwater. He fell, was swept back, struggled up, fell again. Something smote him on the cheek, making his head ring; he grabbed, found himself clinging to a massive stone half out of water. He dragged himself across it, braced himself on the far side. Only then could he pause to cough the water out of his throat. The blackness was solid and velvety; the rushing roar of the water never stopped. He began to remember now, and understood that the pod had carried him down the cataract. He was safe for the moment and not drowning, and that was all he cared about.
After a time he roused himself enough to make sure that he still had his sword and wallet, and then to fumble in the wallet for his light-box. He uncapped the box, and a pale beam sprang out. In its light, he saw the cold water silvery around him. Only two ells off, the pod slowly turned in a whirlpool; all his struggle had been to come that little way. The ragged ceiling was close overhead. Below, the water was everywhere; he could see no end to it. A few irregular blocks of stone rose above the water or could be seen dimly shining beneath it; they looked as if they had fallen from the broken ceiling.
Moving from one stone to the next, supporting himself with one hand and holding the light-box with the other, he put the whirlpool behind him. He saw another in the distance and avoided it; then he noticed that the water was growing shallower. The stone under his feet was broken and tilted, this way and that. It rose until he was wading in sluggish water, no more than ankle-deep. Ahead he saw a line of brightness where the water curled over the edge of a hole. As he approached, he felt a cool breath. He looked down over the lip. Below he saw broken stone, jeweled with the rebounding slow droplets of the water that fell on it.
Lying full length in the water, he put his head and one arm down, turning the light-box this way and that. He could see nothing but darkness beyond the ragged curtains of water. He could not tell where the falling water ran away. The slabs between were almost dry.
He stood, hesitated a moment, then stepped off, pointing the light-box down as he fell. He landed on a tilted slab, lost his footing, and sat down hard, but without taking any hurt. Now the roar of the water was muted overhead, and he could hear the gurgle of lesser streams running away somewhere below. The falling curtains of water were all around him, ghostly silver, pricked with the jewels of floating droplets. Drifting water-points burst on his skin with tiny cool kisses. There were gaps in the falling curtains, torn by the irregular stone above. He put his head through the widest of these openings, saw other broken slabs, other curtains of water beyond. Following the cool air, he made his way among the gray and silver curtains that hung everywhere from the ceiling. Rivulets ran toward him underfoot among the slabs of stone, and he knew by this that the floor was slanting upward. At length the falling curtains of water grew less numerous, and the sound diminished to a mournful pattering behind him. Ahead, the cavern broke into a tortured complexity of shapes in which he found a narrow passage leading upward. He paused to tip out the water from his wallet and to dry his hair as well as he could with his hands; then he followed the passage. It coiled away ahead of him, always upward, always rounded, irregular, dry, and empty in the glow of his light-box. At length the passage widened into a greater darkness. Thorinn stepped out into it cautiously, found himself in a narrow cavern half-choked with a pile of fallen stones. Beyond, in the far wall, he saw a jagged opening.
He climbed the heap of stones and peered in. Light glimmered back from objects whose forms he could not make out. A breath of air came from the opening, but it was slow and stale. He hesitated a moment, then climbed through the gap in the wall and dropped to the level floor below. Silence pressed in upon his ears, a silence more profound even than that of the passage behind him. On every side stood massive objects piled one on another, with slender rods between them. The floor he stood on was perfectly level and as smooth as ice. It was not stone, but some gray, greasy material which seemed faintly warm to the touch. The air was dry and warm. The huge columns stood in rows; their tops disappeared in the darkness.
Thorinn moved between the columns, touching them curiously as he passed. The rods, of cold metal, supported racks on which were piled bundles and bales, and other things for which Thorinn had no names, all covered with some cool, water-smooth substance. He began to realize that he must be in some troll's storehouse, and he paused, listening; but the silence was unbroken. He slid his hands curiously around one of the bundles. It was so smooth and heavy that it was hard to find any purchase on it, but he dragged it out at last and lowered it to the floor. It was almost as broad as his arms could span, vaguely oblong but with all its corners rounded, like a huge gray cheese. He looked in vain for any seam or opening; the smooth surface was unbroken.
Next he tried to cut it with his sword. At the first touch, the covering opened like a mouth. Thorinn put his fingers under the edges, marveling at the thinness and transparency of the stuff, finer than the skin of an onion. He pulled, and the tear lengthened easily. The covering split and tore without resistance, and he peeled it off in great rustling sheets. Underneath was a gray soft substance like bread dough; he could push it in, but the hollow filled out again at once, nor could he tear it with his fingers. Again he used the sword. The gray stuff cut readily, but would not tear like the other. When he pried at the gash he had made, sticky-looking fibers at the bottom clung stubbornly together. He slashed deeper, and at last it gave way, opening in a slit as the transparent stuff had done, and he saw something else beneath it: a gleam of russet and gold.
He tore away the gray substance in lumps, threw them aside. In the glow of his light-box, a bundle of stuff lay revealed, and he caught his breath. Rich and soft beyond belief it was, russet and gold and scarlet in shimmering patterns that were not printed on the fabric but woven into it. He unfolded and unwrapped the cloth, spreading it out on the floor as it went; it covered the whole width of the aisle, and still there was more. Thorinn dropped it and stared at it in wonder. Such a piece of stuff was beyond price; he could ask what he liked for it. This one bale had made him rich. And all the others?
He attacked a second bundle, found it contained another cloth like the first, colored in deep purple, royal blue, peacock green. In a fury of excitement, he ran to the next aisle, found a rack of smaller bundles, some of which, no bigger than his head, had fallen to the floor. He chose one, slashed it open. Inside was a glittering device of brass and ebony, evidently a magical instrument. Such things, he knew, could injure any man not schooled in their use, and he laid it respectfully aside. The next was a pretty jug with a handle and a spout to pour from. He tilted it to see why it was so heavy, but only a single drop of moisture came out.
The next was a black-and-red-patterned box in which, nested in purple velvet, lay dozens of tiny bright figurines of men and ladies.
Stunned with joy, he ran to the next aisle and found other magical engines. The next: Yen-metal knives smaller than his finger, with tiny blades as sharp as his sword. The next: hammers, wedges, no bigger than the knives, and other tiny tools whose use he could not imagine.
The fever to open more and yet more bundles made him forget weariness, cold, thirst, and hunger. He found clothing—wide-s
kirted robes, heavy with brocade; tunics and breeks of gossamer stuff; shoes, marvelously thin and supple. He found rings, bracelets, ropes of jewels that spilled in a flood across the floor. Riches piled up around him, and still he knew that he had barely begun. Once he paused long enough to gather all his trove into one place, and sorting through it, try to decide what he would take with him. Then the blank gray faces of the unopened parcels drove him to frenzy again, and against all common sense he attacked bundles larger than any he had yet opened, gray oblongs taller than himself, ripping open their fronts without removing them from the racks, merely to see what was inside. (Cabinets of polished wood inlaid with nacre. Huge engines of metal and glass. Chairs with arms curved like serpents. More bales of cloth, ten times larger than the others.) Then for weariness alone he forebore, and sat with his head on his heavy arms. Hunger and thirst returned. He tipped up his wallet and drank what little water was in it, but it was not enough. He began to think of finding some container and going back through the caverns for water. The wallet would do, but he wanted to keep that dry to hold his treasures. He could put some of the smallest things in it, the jewels perhaps, and make a bundle of the rest to carry on his back.
He remembered the jug, and looked for it: there it was, at the edge of the great pile he had made. When he took it up, it seemed to him that it was heavier than before. He shook it, and it gurgled. Without thinking, he tipped it over. Water splashed on his feet.
Thorinn righted the jug and stared at it. He shook it again, and it gurgled. He put the spout cautiously to his lips, tilted it up, tasted. It was water, cold and pure, as good as the spring water of Hovenskar. He put his head back and drank in great gulps until the jug was empty.
World and Thorinn Page 6